When Gods Weep, Tears Fall
by Kolostramin Indincranin
Summary: The Lord of Murder once walked Faerun, and left his mark that he might return. Now Diana Shael'sa, still just a girl, is plunged into a lightning storm of hate, love, and confusion as an unknown evil tilts the Sword Coast toward war. A novel of the game.
1. Where to Begin?

1

_Where to begin?_

_It seems just yesterday I was a girl, young and nearly carefree, with nothing more to do than haul water and kill rats for Reaver, and read and re-read piles upon piles of books. It certainly didn't seem simple at the time._

_Who am I now? Certainly not the slip of a girl who complained to Hull about retrieving his sword—which he'd forgotten again—or who stepped into the warmth of the Candlekeep Inn and had to listen to Winthrop's fond crudities. So much has changed that I barely know where it all began, or even how it began. I've seen more since I left Candlekeep, done more things, learned of events and beings more than I had ever imagined, even with my piles of books. Now, as I put my own pen to parchment, I must wonder if this tale will be read someday by someone like me, who dreams of adventure outside the walls of a boring old stone keep, manned by ancient monks and grumpy guards._

_I thought so much of the world back then. I thought…_

_I thought that someday, I'd walk across the snow of Icewind Dale with the freezing wind in my face. I thought I'd stand on the deck of a ship as it fought a storm on the Sea of Fallen Stars. I'd imagined the wonders of Waterdeep, or Westgate, or of exploring the jungles of Chult, or taking a ship across to Maztica, where even those who live there don't know what lies beyond the horizon._

_I thought a lot of things back then. But that's where it all began, isn't it? In Candlekeep._

I sigh and lean forward over the battlement, resting my elbows on the stone and my head in my hands, and gaze out across the vast expanse of the Sea of Swords, where the sun casts blazing shadows across the water. As the waves come they shimmer and dance. Between me and the water lie perhaps a hundred yards of rough ground, leading down to a rocky beach, and then the sea to the horizon.

I spend at least a minute gazing out, becoming less and less aware of what's around me, falling into my own world between my eyebrows, where I seem to spend more and more time lately. Beyond that sea lies the piratical island of Mintarn, and mile upon mile of open ocean, broken only by the occasional stretch of gray, smoothed rocks sticking up out of the water. Far, far out on those rough waters is an island I one day hope to see—fabled Evermeet, the home of the elves who are half my bloodline. And I will go there. Someday.

A cough and grunt from the right interrupts my reverie and I glance over in irritation. Clad in hardened leather and wool now that the weather is cooling, one of the Candlekeep Watchers leans against the parapet much as I do, his massive wooden staff lent against it as well. He looks to have been asleep, and only now that he has snored and awakened himself has he realized. I see him glance around quickly and I have to smile just a little—if the Gatewarden caught him sleeping on duty, he'd let him have it, both in words and pay cuts.

My amusement is short-lived as another Watcher clumps up the stone stairs down below, coming up to either join his partner or relieve him for the night shift. I catch sight of a tousled head of black hair and then Hull, one of the more junior Watchers, jumps the last step and lands atop the parapet. Then he groans and clutches his head with both hands.

"Have a good morning?" the other Watcher asks.

Hull clamps his eyes shut and turns away from the glare of the sun, rubbing his temples. "Cyric's eyes, that's bright." He leans against the wall backwards, waiting until his eyes have either adjusted or stopped hurting so badly, before he opens them. They are bloodshot, and a shadow of a beard clings to his chin. With his outthrust forehead, the combination makes him look a little like some sort of giant monkey. I smile and turn back to the sea, hoping they'll just get it done and exchange, and not interrupt my few minutes of free time. But they don't. I keep my eyes on the sea, and hear only their voices.

"Why so early, Hull?" That was the other Watcher.

Hull groans. "Payday. Yesterday."

"Let me guess. You spent all of it."

"Not all. Not quite."

"Ceeby keeps telling you you'll never get anywhere if you keep showing up like this. Late all the time, unshaven—"

"Marye, when I want you're opinion I'll ask for it," Hull says. His voice is rough from either snoring or his midmorning binge. "In the meantime you're relieved."

The other Watcher grumbles something I don't catch, and I hear him walk away, then down the steps, thudding in his hard-soled boots.

Grumbling as well, Hull shifts his weight on the wall. "Hey kid."

I look over. Hull is a typical Watcher—bent on doing his work, getting paid, and drinking. I like him more than most of the others, for several reasons. "Hey," I say.

"Long day."

I shrug. Hull chuckles, but cuts off with a groan. "Ah, hell," he says, patting his left side. "I _knew_ it, blast it."

I turn more fully toward him as he pats, grabs, and comes up with an empty hand. He looks up at me with a half-irritated, half-sheepish grin. "Uh, kid—"

"Ten?"

He gave me an evil glare. "Fine. Just go get it."

I turn and head for the stairs off the battlements. As I pass below them they cut off the sun, leaving me in shadow. The world beneath the battlements, from early evening to late morning, is chill and, at this time of year, frosty. I go down the last steps with care. In a few hours they'll be covered in a layer of salty frost, blown in from the Sea of Swords.

I nearly bump into the person at the bottom of the steps. When I notice her I try to move aside and almost fall over, sliding on a patch of early frost. I grab the wall, and she grabs me, and I steady.

"Heya! Don't fall there," she says, in bright tones that never seem to dim. "Hey Di."

"Hey, Imoen."

I let go of the wall and step onto hard-packed dirt. A few weeds grow along the wall, now turned yellow and brown with the coming of winter. I watch my feet on the last step, and only when I set down on the ground do I look up, at Imoen.

She's about my height, and, oddly enough, greatly resembles me, though my hair is auburn and hers is dark brown. Like me, she's slim, and keeps her hair relatively short. With the many privileges we're awarded here at Candlekeep—milking cows, loading hay, finding lost books _in_ the hay—long hair is just not an option. Like me, her finger are long and slender, and in the past several years she's become more and more of a woman, not only in form but in her eyes.

The biggest difference between us is our faces. I don't believe I've ever seen Imoen without at least the hint of a smile on her face. She has rather odd, nearly violet eyes, and a softness around her mouth which bespeaks of laughter. I, on the other hand, am darker and more slender. Because of my blood, some say my face is more _angular_ than the average person. I've never found it so, though my eyes slant slightly upward at the corners, and they vary between amber and what I like to refer to as gold. And, as I've mentioned, my hair seems a mixture of brown, with oddly red-gold streaks.

I think people find it difficult to tell us apart because we're always doing the same sort of tasks. Usually, Imoen ends up doing things like cleaning out the sow troughs, and I end up shelving books, but there've been times when we just switched because she or I wanted to do something different, and after several hours someone would notice and say something like, "Hey, you look a little different today…"

Most of the time, with me, it's Winthrop who notices, and who simply laughs until tears stream out of his eyes at the sight of me gooey to the elbows with the weeds that end up growing in the feed trough.

Imoen. She's smiling, for no apparent reason—but then, Imoen doesn't need to explain her smile. But there's something peculiar about that smile, and I take a few steps past her, turn, and say, "Yes?"

She grins. "Can't keep a secret from you, Di. You _sure_ you can't read minds?"

"You were grinning."

"Oh, blast and bother," she says. "I've got to stop doing that, it always give me away. Lookin at the sunset, Di?"

"Lights on the water."

A chill gust of wind skittered over the wall and swooped in under the battlement. I wrapped my wool shirt closer and Imoen grimaced and flipped up the furred hood of her own purple jacket. She likes purple, it matches her eyes.

"Hull again?"

I can't help but grin. Imoen and I don't need to read each other's minds. We've been doing the same things for so long, talking to each other, living in each others lives, that we know exactly what we do.

"Yeah. Again."

"Well, hey Di. It's a way to make a living."

"What, forgetting your sword?"

She grins. "No, not standing outside the guardhouse and reminding him every time to go back in."

"Come on, Imoen," I say, and we start toward the bunkhouse, and the chest at the foot of Hull's bed. It lies across a wide, rutted track that circles the inner ward of Candlekeep, inside the outer walls, and connects all the various cogs of this library together. There's only one gate, to the southeast, and it opens into a courtyard twenty feet across, and then into another, thicker gate which leads into the outside world. Directly before us, beyond the patched roofs and a row of yellow-leafed trees and the wall of the inner ward itself, lie the towers of the keep itself. I've lived nearly all of my twenty years inside these walls, and I know the byways and passages by heart. That is, excepting the crypts, where no one goes unless it's to bury someone.

We step across the ruts, now hardened as the rain of two nights before has dried, and stop next to the door of the bunkhouse. "So," I say. "You have a secret?"

"Yeah. But I think I forgot it."

I turn and she's grinning again. "Kidding. Gorion wants to see you."

I frown. "What about?"

"Well," says Imoen, eyes in the sky, a faint smile playing around her lips, "From what I understood, something about making a journey."

My heart leaps in my chest and comes down pounding. "A journey?"

"Somethin like that."

"Anything else?" For a moment I want to reach out and shake her. I feel almost as if someone has thrust a torch into my face and dazzled my eyes. A journey? Why? The last time we left it was only for a few days in Beregost, and Gorion had told me about it months in advance.

Imoen shifts ever so slightly to one foot, then to the other. "Well?" I ask.

"You might be going a long ways."

I blink in surprise. "How far?"

"Don't know."

I frown. "Did he tell you all of this?"

Shift to the left. Shift to the right. Imoen smiled. "Blast it all, Di, how do you do that?"

"Instinct. And you're shifting your feet."

"Urgh." She tromps both feet on the ground and keeps them still. "Doesn't work, Imoen. Where'd you hear it?" Now I'm even more curious. In the past, Imoen has had a…history with the Watchers. Not a serious one, but as I've practiced with Jondalar and Gorion, she…picked up a few things from Winthrop, who used to "use rosin on the shine."

"Well…" says Imoen. "I wasn't in his room the other day when he was gone, and I didn't just happen to glance over at his desk with all those papers, and happen to see one, and for some reason it didn't catch my attention, and I didn't read it." She frowns. "Nope. Guess I'm just like you, Di, I can read minds."

I chuckle, and much of my tension flows away. It was so…_Imoen_.. "I suppose you're coming along?"

Her eyes go wide. "Me? Oh, no, no. Just you and Gorion, speaking of which, I think Winthrop needs me." She seems ready to turn away, but didn't. I look at her.

"I _could_ ask Gorion if you could…"

If possible, her eyes go even wider. "Oh, no!" she says, and I can't help but smile. "It says very _explicity_, you and Gorion."

Imoen and her way with words. There was a time when I was younger and more in awe of text itself than what it told, when I would have corrected her. But she's got her own method of dealing with speech. Sometimes it's just a little peculiar. Other times she employs oddities like 'buffleheaded" and "trollopy" the last gained from one of Winthrop's tales.

"By the way, what was this message?"

"Message?" Imoen puts on an innocent face. "What message? Anyway, he'd probably just say I'd mess it up or something. I'll get out soon enough. Thanks." And she's gone in a flash of purple.

I shake me head and turn toward the Inner Ward—and then remember Hull's sword and turn back for the barracks. I unlatch the door, pull it open on rusty hinges that squeal horribly, and slip inside.

At midday it's relatively warm here, but now that winter has come on the Watchers of bunkhouse three keep a fire smoldering night and day. The walls are thick and stone, and keep the heat in well. A dozen beds line the walls, each with a small dresser beside it and a chest at the foot. The air is warm and smells faintly of herbs, and I take a moment to relax and let it seep into me. I didn't realize it was that cold outside.

Hull's bunk is the fourth on the right. I go over to it, booted feet making the floor creak. There are no off-duty Watchers present, which means they're either talking with their friends at their posts or at Winthrop's drinking. I kneel down and open Hull's chest. Inside are his spare clothes, an extra blanket, a half-filled knapsack, and atop it all a gleaming new long sword in a leather scabbard. I reach in and take it by the middle.

"Hey there."

I whirl with the sword in hand. Standing not six feet away is a dark-skinned man in patched leathers with several days' growth of black beard. I stare at him until time speeds up again, because he looks so _familiar_ but it can't because—

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" My voice sounds too high, frightened, like a bird caught in a thunderstorm and calling. I can't believe how far back things have got, how far away. The world is brighter than it should be, harsh around the edges as I stare at him.

He says nothing and takes a step forward. I shoot to my feet and back away three more. Though I haven't noticed it, one hand drops to the hilt of the sword I hold scabbarded in one white-knuckled hand.

"I got a question," he says. "Mebbe you can answer it."

"Get out of here," I say. "You're not a Watcher and you—"

"You Diana?"

My mouth goes dry. There's an odd _shink_ as a third of the sword comes out of the scabbard. The man glances at it, unconcerned, and rotates his hips to show a foot-long dagger stuck through his belt. "I said, are you Diana?"

I might have screamed and fallen back. Once, long ago. But I am she no longer. Now, I have a sword in my hand. His eyes are moving down past my face and past the sword and I can see it in his face now that same sort of smile and I yank the rest of the sword free and scream _"Yes, I'm Diana!"_

My scream startles him enough so that he steps back a pace, but I see that his hand has slipped the dagger free. He brings it up and there is a strange sort of grin on his face. "Come on now, girlie, you can't use that," he says, with a jeering jerk of his finger at the sword. "It doesn't make sense. Sweet girls like you don't have swords. Why don't you just hand it over here? Come on." There's a horrible sweetness in his voice as he drops into a half-crouch and advances toward me. I drop the scabbard and take Hull's sword in both hands. All of Jondalar's teaching comes back in a rush and runs out through the side of my head, leaving behind a confusion of words—_strike right, hard, NOW—can't block from the left with figure three, figure four is designed—throw your weight forward and put him off balance—can't always win a fight with muscle you've got to try something else, with you it'll probably always be that way…with you…always that way…_

I blot out the useless directions and focus on the man before me. "What do you want? Who are you?" My voice is high and frightened, but no longer quavers. _No longer._

"Doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is money. Just the money. Oh, yeah, my _name,_ isCarbos," he says, and it's almost as if he's licking his way around the words. I can see his tongue, half-out of his mouth. His eyes are dark and somehow _fierce_, somehow inhuman thought he's very much a human, very much a man, I can see that now. He's seen before him a woman, and he—

This time I take it to him. He's got the dagger, and I've got a sword, and my hate is like an acidic flood that pours into my veins, at once painful and debilitating and at the same time somehow painful and exhilarating, so strong and sudden my limbs almost cramp up and there's a hot flare of pain in my head as I hear voices from years back, voices I don't want to hear. Then I _leap_ at Carbos, point of the sword first.

Eyes wide, he dodges to the side and I rush past him. He's spinning back around at me with that dagger reversed, intending to stab me in the back as I go past, so I follow _him_ around, faster than he expects, and there's another _surge_ of pain and hatred as I catch his trailing left arm with the last foot of the blade and several of his fingers come free with sharp _snaps_, flying like little sausages into the dark corners of the room. He grunts, not noticing it _yet_, _yet_, and comes around with the dagger. I drop to the floor, almost under him as he's overbalancing, and he falls as I put the sword straight up in front of me.

I'll never forget the noise he makes as he goes down on the blade—a clean but somehow liquid _swish_, like stabbing a knife through a tomato. He makes a noise in his throat and I look up as deep red blood pours out of him and down the length of the blade. I let go and it twists as he falls, carving a path through his body. He almost gets my face with his diced left hand, and his nails scrape at me. Then he lets out a low keen, breathless and confused, and slumps into the side of one of the beds. I can see the pool of red expand with each pump of his heart, and for some reason I can't look away, even as he dies. He's face-down on the ground when it happens, away from me, but I can _feel_ it when he goes. Somehow, the room is emptier than it was a minute ago.

I stand, shivering uncontrollably, and look at my hands. They are free of blood, a miracle that probably keeps me sane. I look down at the rest of me, and see that somehow, though the wooden floor between and now under two of the bunks is greedily drinking up this man's life, I somehow missed it all, and for that same strange reason I'm _sad_ about it, as if I'd missed all the fun.

That last disgusts me even more than all the blood, and I as turn toward the door I feel my gorge begin to rise. I scramble at the latch, not wanting to look back at the still form with a bloody blade standing out of its back at an angle, and then the latch slides free and the door swings open, letting in a blast of freezing air and cold gray light, and carries me out with it.

((A))

I make it perhaps five wobbling steps into the street before I go to my knees and decorate the dirt with my lunch. It hurts more than I thought it would, and when I've finished there's a dull ache deep in my gut.

Footsteps nearby, heavy and crunching in the ruts of the road. A shadow falls across me and a rough hand grasps my arm. "Kid?"

I jerk away from the voice and the hand and might have lost it even out there had I not recognized the speaker. Hull looms over me, staff in one hand, concern etched in his hung-over face. "You okay, kid?"

"Hull, oh gods! Oh, watching gods!" I say, and get the irresistible urge to grab him and hug him so tight I won't ever have to let go. But _he_—

_No_.

"Diana? Child?" Another voice, this one female, and coming closer. "Hull, what's wrong with her?"

"Threw up," says Hull, over my head, and now I really do feel like a child again, with all the tall people talking over and around you, and only rarely _to_ you. Who was Carbos? What was he doing there? Why now? Why me?

I find no answers, and as dusty mauve robes come into view on my right, I'm not sure who can give me them except maybe Carbos himself, and—

"Diana?"

I look up. Framed by the gray, fading clouds, Parda appears for a moment like a purple wraith against the sky. Now everything seems cold and dead—until I see her eyes, brown and caring. "Child? Are you well?"

_Child._.. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and push up from the ground. Parda takes my shoulder and helps me up. We're the same height, though she's a bit larger around the waist. As with all the Seekers she wears robes of a mottled purple, and has her hood up against the chill.

"Hull, did you see anything?" she asks when I don't immediately reply.

Hull shrugs. In the dimming light he looks even more like a monkey, with his eyes in shadow but gleaming out at times. "She come running out of the bunkhouse like she seen a demon," he says. "Then dumped it in the road."

I want to laugh at how he puts it, because an image of someone shoveling dung into the ruts on the street out of a large wagon comes into my mind. "Very well," says Parda. "You may return to your post."

I catch a flash of irritation in Hull's eyes as he turns away and a little voice whispers _that's why_. Parda takes me by the hand and turns away.

"Thank you, Hull," I say before I can stop myself.

He turns and shrugs, but I catch a faint grin. "No problem, kid. You okay?"

I open my mouth to reply, but haven't thought of a reply by the time Parda has decided we're going.

((A))

Parda waits until we are out of earshot of the Watchers on the wall. "You are sure you're alright? What happened?"

A dozen replies flash in my mind, and I find with some surprise that more than one is designed to turn her away, to rebuff her so that I can go on my way to, to…

_To what?_ I can feel wetness gathering behind my eyes, a stinging that means I'm about to cry, and I will _not_. Not now, not today. I look up into the cold gray of the sky and think _what's happening? Why did I just kill him? Why did he try to kill me?_

"Parda," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "There was a man in there. He, he—" I cut off, unwilling to speak and betray the quiver that will come into my tones. Parda's eyes seem to flash.

"Gods, child, not again." She reaches out to me and I step away. Not now. "He tried to kill me," I say, and out here under the iron gray, it doesn't sound nearly as ridiculous as it should have.

The concern in Parda's eyes shifts to a different degree. "Oh, my, child—"

_My name is Diana_. I want to shout at her, which is even more surprising. I've known Parda for years, she's tutored me and spent nearly as much time with me as Shindal though she is a Seeker and of higher rank than he. "What's happening?" I ask instead. The quiver has come back and flutters like a trapped and dying butterfly at the back of my throat. I'm shivering, and it feels unbearably cold. "Parda, why did he try to kill me?"

"Child, I can't explain. Not now. There's no time."

I stare at her in utter astonishment, coldness seeping into my chest now. "What do you mean?"

"Child, Gorion can explain. It's best he does. He's waiting for you inside the keep. He was afraid something like this would happen. Go."

She's speaking gibberish, I can't understand her, but as we round the corner of another bunkhouse I see one of the two arched gates that lead into the walled gardens and the inner circle. Parda gives me a gentle push in the back. "Go, child."

I stumble forward as if she's shoved me. After a few steps I regain my balance and go on, no more enlightened than a moment before, wondering what Parda meant by—how can she know—how could she expect—if she knew why didn't she _warn_—if Gorion knew why didn't _he_ warn me?

I'm no more than a dozen steps into the quietude of the inner circle, surrounded by clear, still pools and trimmed bushes, when I hear soft footsteps on the path directly ahead of me. For a moment I tense, all my muscles contract again, painfully—then Tethtoril rounds the bend and slows as he sees me.

If there are three people I truly trust, they are Imoen, Gorion, and Tethtoril. I'd spoken with him only a handful of times over the years but each left me wondering how anyone could be so kind, so gentle, and so old. His face is withered with age and a long, flowing beard drapes from his chin. His eyes are like bright blue stars, constantly twinkling. His red-gold robes gleam despite the fading light, and as his eyes light on me they brighten. "Greetings, young one." Though there is condescension, as with Parda, in his voice, it's somehow different. Tethtoril...doesn't treat me like a child. He never really has.

"First Reader," I say, his formal title. He smiles at me, and I have the urge to drop my eyes. "Come now, Diana, I think we've spoken often enough to dispense of that." His smile reverses this gentle rebuke and turns it into something resembling advice. "Something troubles you."

"Very much so, First Reader." I _can't_ call him Tethtoril. It would be like speaking face-to-face with Gorion, and calling him father. "I don't know what to do about it."

He smiles at me. "Times come when such occurs, young one, and there is simply no struggle against them. Do what you can, but fate will take you where it will in the end. You are at the edge of that, child, and neither I nor any other can help you."

The cold had retreated since Tethtoril came. Now it advances again, into the centers of my bones. "What is coming, First Reader?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "That is not for me to say. But take this, dearest child, and gods bless you." Before I can move he lifts his hands, and I feel the chill leave my bones as if ejected by the warmth that flows in behind. For a moment I just lose myself in this glorious newfound warmth, and then Tethtoril's face comes into view again, hovering at the center of my vision. "Now, child, go to Gorion."

He turns and pads, silent in his golden slippers, back the way he has come. I blink. The world seems just a little too focused. The waters are utterly clear in the pool beside me, and the green of the vines and leaves on the wall is somehow...greener.

But that deathly chill has gone, and I utter a silent thanks to Tethtoril, and to Mystra, to whom he prays, as I turn and make my way through the southern portion of the gardens. In some places the still-green trees and vines almost block my view, and in one such place, concealed on all sides by layers of vegetation, I find the Chanter.

He is seated on a stone bench beside a fountain, eyes closed, rocking back and forth, his deep baritone making the air thrum. The Chanter is the heart of song in Candlekeep, and also the keeper of the prophecies of Alaundo, along with his three assistants, called the three Voices. He doesn't notice me, simply continues chanting as I stop and watch.

_When shadows fall across the land_

_Our divine lords will walk among us as equals_

_And such a pestilence shall they bring_

_That all those who go against them shall be struck down._

And then the ending that closes all of the prophecies of the Chanter and the Voices,

_So sayeth the Wise Alaundo_

Hundreds of years ago, Alaundo founded Candlekeep as a repository of knowledge. Alaundo the Seer, Alaundo the Wise, had spelled out the possible history of Faerun for untold years to come in his prophecies, and he has never been wrong. Admittedly, some of what he foretold seems to have had little impact. For example, he once predicted: _A golden unicorn shall travel unmolested through the length of Waterdeep_.

And indeed, in the Year of the Harp a golden unicorn did walk the length of Waterdeep—a shapeshifted druid by the name of Eleme Eversil, who as far as the Chanter knows, had never even heard of Alaundo.

On the other hand, Alaundo prophesied many of the greatest troubles of the current ages. _White birds shall vanish from the north, and great evil shall die and be reborn,_ which, according to some sages, links directly with the Time of Troubles.

The Chanter lifted his voice high into the leaden air, and sang again.

_In the year of the Turret, a great host will come_

_From the east like a plague of locusts_

_So sayeth the Wise Alaundo_

_The Lord of Murder shall perish_

_But in his doom he shall spawn_

_score of mortal progeny._

_Chaos shall be sown in their passing._

_So sayeth the wise Alaundo._

I go past the Chanter, leaving him to speak the words of the ages to the trees. Once I was enchanted with the endless tales Alaundo foretold. Now, they do not seem so important.

((A))

I leave the path as I near the gates of the keep, and cross an expanse of carefully cut green grass to the arching bridge that crosses a rectangular fish pool and leads to the doors of the inner keep. Standing just before the doors, robed in gray, his hair the same steely color as the sky overhead, is Gorion. In one hand he holds a small knapsack. In the other, a scabbarded sword. _My_ sword. The one Jondalar presented me with four weeks ago for passing the third and final part of his training.

Gorion's lean, wolfish face splits into a smile as I approach. "Diana, I'm glad you've come. Here, take these." He hands me the sword. "Put this on first."

I do so, unstrapping the thick leather belt around my waist and sliding the scabbard on, angling it at the proper angle for my right hand to grasp. It's incredible how natural it feels, how…how much more safe.

Gorion hands me the knapsack and turns to pick up another sitting on the ground behind him. "Are you ready?"

I blink in surprise. "We're leaving now?"

He nods. "There is no time, and already it may be too late. Come quickly, child." He moves off the bridge, out into the gardens. I glance around and catch a flash of purple at one corner of the building. At another time I might have smiled—Imoen again, keeping tabs on us until we leave. I hurry after Gorion as he goes through the archway and out onto the grounds, past the Gatewarden, who is engaged in drilling a dozen Watchers on the finger points of wielding a staff. Gorion ignores them and as soon as I fall into step beside him. Nearly all the light has bled out of the sky now, and the vault of clouds overhead is blank and empty. Rain will come tonight.

Gorion pauses at the gates, and I realize with a start there are no horses. "We're walking?"

He nods. "It's best." Again that brusqueness, so unusual in my guardian. "Perhaps later we will buy several. Now, child, I must tell you something. It is important." His voice has a peculiar crack to it I've only heard a few times—when Imoen set his bedsheets on fire, for example. "If we ever become separated, it is _imperative_ that you make your way to the Friendly Arm Inn. You know where it lies?"

"Two days north by horse, more on foot."

"Good. There you will find Khalid and Jaheira. They have long been my friends, and you can trust them." He looked keenly at me for a moment. "Do you understand?"

"Khalid and Jaheira at the Friendly Arm? Why? How would we be separated?" A little bit of that coldness stabs in through the golden glow and I flinch. "Gorion, what's—"

"Patience, Diana. All will be told soon. But we must go first." Gorion frowns at me. "Did you hurt yourself?"

I touch my cheek, where Carbos raked with his nails. "It's nothing."

Gorion shakes his head. "Child, nothing is ever nothing." He reaches out with a hand that glows with pale fire and touches my cheek, and the sting of the scrapes vanishes as cool energy rushes into me. I almost hug him, there's something wrong in the way he's saying things, something wrong in the way everything's going, but he smiles, touches my cheek with one gentle finger, and turns away as the gates begin to clatter upward.

We step out, into the failing light, and the gates clatter shut behind us.

((A))

Bits of the clouds have drifted away by the time we pick our way down the long cart track that leads along a near knife-edge of cliff to Candlekeep itself. As we step out of the cool wind and the sounds of ocean decrease in volume, the sounds of the forest close in around us.

We start along the Lion's Way, which connects some miles ahead with the Coast Way, but almost immediately Gorion takes my hand and leads us off the path, into the trees, as the clouds rumble and the first drops of rain spatter on the stones. As the storm grows worse and the trees begin to rustle in the wind, he leads me further and further into the trees, until we come to the edge of a clearing. "It's best to be off the road. It may be watched," he says, and takes the lead, stamping his oaken staff into the ground with every step. The trees are so thick in here the only sign of the storm is water dripping down the trunks of the trees. Then a sudden crack of thunder explodes nearby and I let out a startled sound. Gorion turns, a shadow in the deeper darkness of the woods. "Hurry, child. The night can only get worse and we must find shelter soon."

I follow him out of the woods and into a clearing full of great rounded stones, set in strange patterns on the ground, perhaps a mark of a long-gone village or farm that once stood here. "Don't worry," Gorion is saying. "I'll explain everything as soon as there is time. There's no use not letting you—"

He stops suddenly, staring into the darkness ahead. I stop several steps behind him, staring as well, as forms begin to resolve out of it.

In the lead comes a man all in dark armor, uncaring of the rain that lashes down from the sky and makes his black plate shine. He is at once monstrous and graceful, at least a foot higher than me but snake-quick, and clad from head to foot in metal black as the night. He looks nearly as a great beast, with a helmet sporting great curving metal horns, and a maw where his eyes—oh, gods, his _eyes_—look out.

His eyes gleam with an unnatural light, a yellow gleam that shines out and seems to stab me through the chest, a sickening glow that makes me want to retch. I can't, because I got rid of it earlier.

In one hand, casual as a woodsman with his hatchet, he swings an enormous black sword, unmarked and gleaming with the rain as well.

From the darkness behind him come three more figures. One off to the side is a woman, shadowy beneath an oilskin cloak, only her long dark hair showing and, in the flashes of lightning, a pale face. Water streams off of her.

The other two are twice my height, with pale green skin and no hair that I can see. They have a dull, blank look in their eyes, as if there isn't enough behind them to look out through. They each carry a huge spiked club, reminiscent of a morning star but not quite there. Though they are huge, and they bare their broken teeth, I am not half as frightened of them as I am of the dark man with the glowing eyes.

When he speaks it is so deep it seems to shake me from the inside, and he speaks to Gorion as if I do not exist.

"You're perceptive for an old man. You know why I'm here. Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt. If you resist it shall be a waste of your life."

Gorion stands there in the lashing rain, straight as I have ever seen him, and there is no fear in his eyes. I feel a chill as he speaks, as if he is bringing something out of himself. I have just enough knowledge and feeling of the Art to sense the rising of his power. "You're a fool if you think I would trust your benevolence. Step aside and you and your lackeys will be unhurt."

The dark warrior steps forward one pace, both allowing us to see him better, and to show him Gorion's face. There is no fear in his voice, either, only sarcasm.

"I'm _sorry_ that you feel that way, old man."

With the same swiftness that came when Carbos attacked, they all come forward—all except the woman, who stands back. I can see white fire flickering between her fingertips. Gorion slams the butt of his staff on the ground and a great blast of white light erupts out of the top, crackling with a pseudo-electric quality through the air, striking one of the ogre-like beasts with enough force to lay its charging body flat out on the ground, backward. It twitches and jerks, and Gorion lifts a hand and hurls a flaming ball at the other. It strikes it in the neck and erupts in a miniature hurricane of fire. The thing screams for just one second, then topples over into a growing puddle, smoke rising from it.

Things are happening too fast. I can't think straight. Gorion hurls another blast of energy at the charging dark warrior, but though the bolt hits him square it does absolutely nothing. The cloaked woman finishes her own weaving and a dart of flame flies through the darkness straight at me. I turn to run and it strikes me between the shoulder blades, a hot flare of pain that is somehow _less_ than it should be, and all the warmth of Tethtoril's spell runs out of me, leaving me drenched and cold and with a sickening, wrenching feel somewhere deep inside. Gorion is shouting at me, "Run, child, run!" as he flings a blazing red-black bolt of flame at the dark warrior who is now so close, and this time it strikes him full and explodes in a jet of fire that knocks him backward. He lands on his feet and rushes forward, raising his sword.

Ten separate tiny bolts of energy streak from Gorion's right hand toward the warrior's face as Gorion lifts his staff and aims the glowing tip at him. All five strike home and the dark man grunts, but comes on. With his free hand Gorion unsheathes a gleaming dagger that flickers with its own fire, and waits—

And then they collide, a great tower of dark steel and a frail, old man who somehow doesn't go down, who steps forward to slash.

I never see the blow. It all happens to fast. One minute Gorion is standing, the next he topples backward, dagger and staff falling from his hands, and over him stands the great hulk of black steel, reversing his great sword in his hands, plunging it down into the still form beneath him—

All of them fade before my eyes as I turn and run, run away into the dark, the world blurring before my eyes and everything beginning to spin, to fall away, deeper blackness opens to either side and I run. There is laughter inside my head, a cold, cruel, sickening laughter that makes me hurt all the more because it reminds me of _everything_, of _always_, of…of…

I fall down out of the darkness, onto soft grass, and down into unconsciousness.

((T))

Author's Note: As you may have noticed, things have changed a little this time around. For one, it's a first person, present-tense perspective, something I think may work well for this story. As well, it already has more depth than the others, which is the point—I can hope I've improved. You tell me.

For critics or fellow critiquers, you may find mistakes in this story. There is a greater chance than in any other of my stories because I'm not going to be carefully going over this to be certain it's free of most grammatical mistakes. I'm writing this to write as much as possible before I run out of time and impetus to put out a story I've had in my head for several years. It twists, beware.

You may notice it lacks a prologue. I don't think it needs it. You tell me.

For those of you who take the time to read this, consider it a gift to anyone weird enough to consider looking at it. This will be the third time I've attempted this story. Obviously, both the other times I failed. After those I decided that writing fanfiction that could never earn me any money was not worth it. But you don't need to know my reasons.

For future chapters, I'd recommend approximately size 12 font so the words neither whisper nor shout. They're not intended to, I assure you, just to be read. And please try not to race. I've done that too much with books and have found it doesn't give me the whole story.

Consider it a sign of holiday mania and free time, and have fun.

K. Stramin

December 18th 2007


	2. Morning Sun Rises

2

The morning sun rises cold and fiery into the sky, and though it pains my eyes, I do not look away. I cannot look away. The pain they feel is nothing, nothing, compared to that within me.

I lie at the base of a tree somewhere in the forest. All around me stand oaks and other, leafy trees I've never learned the name of. I've lain for longer than I care to remember, and my neck is stick and sore. I may have fallen asleep, but I will never know.

I do not want to move. There seems no point. I do not want to think, for though I've spent most of my life walled up with my imagination, to use it now is biting agony as images out of the streaking rain of last night flash before my eyes. The gleam of the dark man's eyes, hot and yellow and savage. The flare of light over Gorion's face, cool and calm and resolved, his cry—_"Run child, run!_"—as his power razes the foes before us, the cloaked woman turning and fleeing into the darkness, the dark warrior charging forward, the black blade in his hand singing though it is covered in rain, and that blow that I never saw, that single strike, and Gorion's hands go flying up and he falls backward, into the mud, his weapons clattering away across the stones, and that great armored man standing above him, plunging his sword straight down into the form that lies…

I do not cry. _Once, but no more._ No more, I whisper to myself. No more. It will do no good, and you will only feel worse after. _No more, no more…_

I close my eyes to the sun's glare and let the burning behind my eyes spill forth, bringing wetness, and as the first fall from my closed lids, I push off from the tree, fall to my knees on the ground, and scream into the darkness all around, shutting out the twitter of birds and the rustle of the leaves above me.

I scream. All my strength leaves with that one cry, as if I'd seized my own soul and thrown it out of my body. The echoes stir crows from the trees nearest me. They flap away, cawing and whirling to glare at me out of dead black eyes, but I lean against the ground, using what it gives to keep me up, to keep me conscious when pitch-black darkness and red-hot hate threaten to swallow me.

From off to the left there comes the clatter of boots on cobblestones. I should look up, I should get up and crouch, and either run away or run straight at the thing, the man who is coming to kill me.

But I lie there, on the grass, not far from the cobbles, and wait for it to end. _End? End? Pathetic? I'll never get anywhere if I don't get up? I can't die here not now! Not now!_

"Di?"

The voice, so sweet, brings me up like a shot. "Imoen!"

She stands there, pack over one shoulder, a bow over the other, all purple against the white of the road and the fading green of the trees, head cocked a little to one side, looking at me. I stare at her as if she's a ghost, which she may well be. If Gorion is gone, then what if…what if…

"Heya," she says, and steps forward. "It's me, Imoen."

I'm scarcely aware of moving, but the next moment I dive into her arms. She stumbles backward and tries to catch me, but only partially succeeds. I hold onto her and almost bring her down with me, and we end up, she crouching, me on my knees and hanging onto her shoulders, in the middle of the road. "Hey, Di," she says, "Don't fall down there."

"_Imoen_," I say, and at another time I'd be horrified at how my voice is trembling."Gorion is _dead_!"

Imoen closes her eyes and for the first time in my life, she seems weary. For a moment. "Yeah," she says. "I saw him. And the…the others."

I lean into her as tears stream down my face, and I realize a moment later that the wetness isn't just mine. "Imoen."

She grips me hard and for awhile, I'm not sure how long, we weep in the calm morning.

I lean back at last, shedding the last of the tears with a ferocious swipe at my eyes, and my mind begins to work for the first time since dusk. "Imoen, what are you doing here?"

She shrugs and smiles. It's amazing how good it feels just to see that smile again. "Taking a walk. That's all."

"Imoen."

She grins. "Now you can't make that telepathic claim because _that_ was a horrible lie."

I can't laugh, not yet, but I hiccup and some more of the pain down there eases away. "It was. But what are you doing out here, now?"

She smiles again, this time shyly. "I came out last night, Di. After you and Gorion."

"_After_ us?"

"After you left. Yeah, I was following you. But I wasn't close enough…" she trails off.

"You couldn't have helped," I say, and though it's painful it's also true. "Even Gorion couldn't. All he had time to say was 'run' and then he fought…"

Imoen takes me by the shoulder and helps me over to a lonely stand of pines by the roadside. Three of them make a small, roughly triangular clearing, and she sits me down there. I lean back against the rough bark and only then realize what an enormous bruise I have on my back, where the flaming arrow of that cloaked woman hit me. I ignore it.

"Watching gods, Imoen," I say at last, after an eternity of staring up into the sun-speckled branches. "What am I going to _do_?"

She looks at me, with a mixture of hurt and irritation, and says, with an absolutely straight face, "What are _you_ going to do? _You_? Gosh, Di, you're like…" she pauses, trying to come up with a suitable word. "You are completely toddlefooted, Di."

I blink. "What does that mean?"

Imoen blinks. "I have no idea."

"Is it worse than buffleheaded?"

She nods. "_Much_ worse."

She watches me. I watch her, but at last, I crack a faint smile. She grins back. "Knew you had one in there somewhere, Di."

"Only a little, Imoen. Right now I'm tired and scared. I don't know what to do."

"Yeah." A little of the laughter fades from her eyes. "Well, there's that letter Gorion got."

"The one you read?"

She shrugs. "I might have caught a glimpse. I can't quite remember what it was about."

I sigh and lean back again. Dead end. No clue as to what is happened. Straight on cliff, Diana, straight on into thin air and no flying machine.

"They killed him," I say, "But they wanted me."

"What?"

"That's exactly what they said. That…that _bastard_," I spit out with an amazing amount of venom, "Only wanted me. 'Hand over your ward'. They wanted _me_. Not Gorion."

"Huh."

Carbos and his rotating hips and gleaming dagger swim into my thoughts. "They weren't the first. Yesterday in Candlekeep, just after you left, someone tried to kill me in the bunkhouse."

"_Gosh_, Di." Imoen's violet eyes go wide. I nod.

She's silent for awhile. "What's it mean?"

"That someone wants me dead. I don't know why. If we had the letter maybe—" I shrug and wince as it spasms across my back.

"Maybe he's still got the letter."

She says it matter-of-factly, and it sends a chill down my spine. "You mean Gorion?"

"If it was important he'd keep it. And…" she gulps, looking nervous. "He's still there."

It makes such horrible sense I don't want to think about it. I close my eyes and try and banish the images, the shouts of the dying ogres. It doesn't work.

But what else is there to do?

"Let's go," I say, pushing up from the tree and heading toward the scorched pack still lying on the road. "Do you know which way it is?"

((A))

This is the southern part of the Cloakwood, and relatively thin. Further north, I've read, the trees are too thickly woven to even squeeze between. Here they provide shade only. A chipmunk chatters at me as we walk along, and my hand jumps to the hilt of my sword. I blink and loosen my grip. Within fifteen minutes we come upon the edge of the clearing. Puddles linger after last night's downpour, and I realize that my clothing is still damp.

In the center of the heath lie two great green-skinned bulks and something smaller between them, all in gray. I turn away. Imoen takes my hand. "Come _on_, Di."

We step out into the muckiness of the stone-studded clearing and go among the circles until we reach the center, where the ogres lie.

They stink. From ten feet off I can see bugs crawling in the uncured furs they wore. Their clubs lie a short distance off, flung from nerveless hands by the spasms of death. Between them, Gorion lies crumpled. I begin to shake as we come near.

"Di, _strong_," says Imoen, and I close my eyes and breathe slowly, and the trembles go away.

From here, I can see how Gorion died—a single straight stab would directly underneath his left arm, in the armpit, angled straight in not deep enough to come out the far side. One of the most difficult kills to make, Jondalar once said, but sometimes the only attack against an armored foe. Gorion hadn't been armored, had he? With his Art…

Imoen drops to her knees beside him. She looks like she wants to puke. Gorion landed face-up, arms splayed. I try not to look at his face, frozen in pain, and kneel beside him as well. The air is cold and smells of wet earth, and faintly of uncured hides. The ground around his body is blackened and charred from his own spells.

It takes me only a moment to find Gorion's scroll case, tucked away in the pack now lying to one side. I unsnap and unroll it, and two dozen sheets of parchment peek out at me. Most are covered with the half-runic, half-flowing script of spells. "I don't think it's here," I say, and despite myself I tuck Gorion's scroll case into my own pack. _I may need it…_

"Here," says Imoen, pulling his coin pouch out from under him. She opens it and out flops a wet piece of parchment, covered with nearly illegible writing. I take it and unfold it carefully, so it doesn't rip.

I read.

_My friend Gorion,_

_Please forgive the abruptness with which I now write, but time is short and there is much to be done. What we have long feared may soon come to pass, though not in the manner foretold, and certainly not in the proper timeframe. As we both know, forecasting these events has proven increasingly difficult, leaving little option other than a leap of faith. We have done what we can for those in thy care, but the time nears when we must step back and let matters take what course they will. We have, perhaps, been a touch too sheltering to this point. Despite my desire to remain neutral in this matter, I could not in good conscience let events proceed without some measure of warning. The other side will move very soon, and I urge thee to leave Candlekeep this very night, if possible. The darkness may seem equally threatening, but a moving target is much harder to hit, regardless of how sparse the cover. A fighting chance is all that can be asked for at this point._

_Should anything go awry, do not hesitate to seek aid from travelers along the way. I do not need to remind thee that it is a dangerous land even without our current concerns, and a party is stronger than an individual in all respects. Should additional assistance be required, I understand that Jaheira and Khalid are currently at the Friendly Arm Inn. They know little of what has passed, but they are ever thy friends, and will no doubt help however they can._

_Luck be with us all. I'm getting too old for this._

_E_

I kneel for a long minute, staring at the scribbled letter, wondering. _Who is E? Why is E writing to Gorion? What does Carbos have to do with this? _There's an "other side?" I glance at those words and a chill crawls up my back. That armored fiend had not been alone, and his body certainly isn't here. He's survived the fight, and…might be around still.

I pass the letter to Imoen. She studies it, frowning, as I search Gorion's…body. On his right pinkie finger I find a silver ring set with a single large gray stone, almost like a stone from a brook bed. I look at it for a moment, then slip it onto my own thumb, the only finger big enough to hold it

Then I turn my attention to his pack. Inside is a wrapped loaf of bread and a dozen apples, as well as an extra dagger and Gorion's green wool bedroll. Imoen sighs and looks up at me as I stare down at the apples.

"Wow," she says.

I shrug. "I don't understand it."

"Well, some of it's pretty clear."

I shove the apples in my own pack and look over at her. "Yeah. Some people want me dead. I still don't know why. Gorion did. This 'E' definitely did. But me?" I sigh and put the bread in my pack, cushioning it so it doesn't get smashed.

Imoen hands the letter back to me. "At least it's something."

I tuck the extra dagger into one of the side pockets of my pack. "Something that doesn't help much." I sit back on the ground, pack in my lap. "Imoen, I still don't know what to _do_."

"We could go back to Candlekeep."

I shake my head. "Did you ever actually read the code that governs visitors and residents to that place? Ever wonder why most of the monks, Shandal and Parda and Hull aside, were so solemn? It costs a lot to get in there, Imoen. Candlekeep's like a big, expensive research center. When Khelben Arunsun came to study for five days, they made him pay with the Tome of Kang." As Imoen nods, my throat closes and I just get the words out. "Gorion told me."

"Okay. So no Candlekeep. Where else can we go?"

"Imoen, whoever said anything about _we?_ They don't want you. You've still got a place at Candlekeep, with Winthrop."

Imoen grimaces. "Do you have any idea how boring that is? Feeding the pigs? Filling up ale mugs? Di, that's a fate worse than _death._"

I gape at her. "What in the nine hells is that supposed to mean? _I'm_ the one who almost got killed. You just came out—"

Imoen is grinning. I stop, still staring. She shrugs. "Di, you're a little slow this morning. I'm not gonna just leave."

"But you don't have a _part_ in this!" I feel more tears coming on and force them back down.

"Don't I? Di, Gorion's dead. I…" Imoen shrugs, smile gone. Then grins again. "Di, wherever you're going, I'm coming. You'll have to tie me up in a sack to get me to stay behind. Stick with you till you say otherwise, yes sir."

I smile. Then I stand up, walk around Gorion, pull her up from the ground, and hug her.

"Di!" she pushes off, grinning, face red.

"Thank you, Imoen." The sun all around is bright, and she's grinning still, but I feel a sudden chill. What if _Imoen_ ends up like Gorion?

I shake off the thought. "Okay, then, where are _we_ going?"

Imoen shrugs. "The letter says something about some people, right?"

I look down and have to read it all over again. "Khalid and Jaheira?" And then I remember Gorion's words of last night. _They have long been my friends, and you can trust them._

"Good as any," says Imoen. "Better than most."

"Fine. Let's go."

((A))

I have traveled only a dozen times in my life, all of them with Gorion, and as we make our way east along the broad, cobbled road that is the Lion's Way, I am struck by how different the world seems. Some things are the same—the chatter of the birds not yet gone south, the rustle of the leaves and the patter as they fall to earth, paving the edges of the road with faded oranges and yellows. But there is something different now, something absent, even though Imoen walks beside me, gripping the straps of her knapsack and chattering away.

After awhile, though, even her endless chatter falls silent, and there is only the road.

We meet the first travelers early the next morning. There are two of them, one tall, one short, and they stand staring at the crossroads that connect the westward Lion's Way and the north-south Coast Way, as if that stone pillar might give them some clue as to where they are.

My first thought is that it's an elf and a dwarf. The elf is quite a bit taller than Imoen and I, and the dwarf at most half that, unusually short. The elf wears thick, gray-green robes and the dwarf is armored and wears a short, cleaving sword at his waist, and a strung bow sticks up behind one shoulder behind his pack.

Then they hear our steps and turn, and I realize that the elf is actually a clean-shaven man with tattoos across his face, and a weird, wild look in his eyes. His hair is matted and brown, though I can't tell if it's dirt or the true color. The dwarf is a halfling, unusually broad and with a wild look in his eyes—somehow calmer than the man, but at the same time more bloodthirsty.

They stare at us, two rather deranged males, and I want to turn and walk away—or run.

"My my," says the man, stroking his smooth chin. "Strangers wandering in the wilderness. And children, too." He isn't speaking to us, but at the same time he's not talking to the halfling. He looks instead to be conversing with the air. The halfling touches the hilt of his sword, then looks sideways and up at the man in irritation.

The man's eyes focus on me. "Child, surely you are none too bright to be traveling this road?"

He phrases it like a question, not like the insult it is. I'm not sure how to take it. The halfling runs his eyes down me to my scuffed and dirty knees, then back up with a clinical stare, and he speaks as well. "Yer look scuffed too." He flicks his gaze to Imoen, then back to me. "A fine pair of troubles, all yer own."

I blink, still with no idea of how to proceed. The man steps forward, snaps his wrist, and a little blue bottle comes out of his sleeve. He waves it in front of my face like a hypnotist, but his voice is utterly calm. "I can offer you potions, if you wish. As a token of goodwill" He says it fast, overlapping the center so it comes out "goodill".

I've no idea who they are. But, seeing the halfling's scowl and the man's deranged smile, I doubt that either is Khalid or Jaheira. "No thanks," I say, and sidestep along the road, keeping my face toward them as I edge toward the northern path. "I'm sorry."

The man looks as though Imoen might have shot him in the heart. "You do not trust us?"

_That's an understatement, buddy. _The halfling grumbles and scowls at me. "I will not be insulted by this whelp," he says.

The man turns to face him, stroking his beard again. "Now, now Montairon. If I had just encountered you I would pwobably be leery as well." The first half of "probably" comes out sounding like a noise a chicken might make. He looks back over at me and gives a tremendous shrug of his thin shoulders. "So be it. I shall not heal you."

Montaron shoves his scowl into the background and lets loose of his sword. "Refuse if you wish. Idiot," I hear him mutter. By this time we're almost on the northern road. I feel like I'm treading along the edge of a pit filled with poisonous snakes.

The man cocks his head to the sky again, but he still speaks to me. "Neither shall I hold you to a debt of honair for slighting my, uh, good intentions. Though your conscience may."

I'm loathe to turn my back on these people, and so I stop and standing, wondering what we can do to get out of this. Neither of them looks particularly sane, though the man is obviously more deranged.

"Just like all good people," says Montaron, and I have to think to recall what he's talking about.

"Perhaps as payment, you could go with us to Nashkel," says the man. "It is a twoubled region, and we will investigate some rumors about the local iron mine. Some people are very concerned, specifically about where to lay the blame."

An escape. "No, thank you. I'd best be on my way," I say, and turn away. Imoen stays facing them, and I note her bow is in her hand. The other hand is behind her leg. As I pass her she turns and falls into stride with me, and we leave the madmen behind. Neither utters a word as we pass from view.

((A)

I look over at Imoen as we round a bend. "Did you get the impression, maybe just a little, that they're both—"

"Nuts?" she grins. "Definitely."

"Right." _Not the sort of people we want along. Not the sort of men._

Imoen puts an extra bounce in her step as we trot along. "Look at this. Today's beautiful!"

Startled, I glance at her but say nothing.

"Oh, come on, Di, look at the trees. And the grass! All that rain last night told the woods it's not deepfall yet!"

I look around, though I've been listening for hours. An eagle sits in the branches of a dead tree not far away, staring at us out of fathomless black eyes.

"Di, isn't this great, being outside? Going somewhere?"

I shrug. "It's not quite what I expected." _To say the least._

Imoen drops back in stride with me. "Yeah, I know. But what's the point if you can't enjoy it anyway?"

I shake my head as we go on up the road.

The first two days north on the Coast way are marvelous, to a degree. I've never been so free outside, which is both wonderful and terrifying. As I awake on the third day, however, it is as leaves drip water into my face, and as we start out, the road turns boring. I've gotten blisters on my right foot, which isn't surprising considering the pace we've set. But even with Gorion's extra food, we only have about five days supply and the Friendly Arm Inn is still at least a day away.

And then, around noon on the third day since leaving Candlekeep, we come upon the old man.

He's just standing there, off to one side but still on the cobbles, leaning on a gnarled oaken staff and puffing on a peculiar long-stemmed wooden pipe. Smoke rises in lazy curls toward the sun.

He looks over us as we approach. For a moment he reminds me of Tethtoril, with his calm, assaying gaze. He has a white beard at least as long, and similar red robes, though his are somewhat frayed and patched in places, and he has a pointed red hat, the point of which is crumpled.

He lowers his pipe as we come near, and I watch the woods to either side. The word _ambush_ is still fresh in my mind, and this man looks like another practitioner of the Art.

We were going to walk right on past, but he raises a hand and speaks in a low, deep voice. "Ho, there, wanderer. Stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man."

We slow, then stop, still some distance away. He comes toward us but stops ten feet out, leaning on his staff. He looks at Imoen, then at me, with piercing gray eyes. He has a hawk nose, something Tethtoril does not have.

"It's been nigh unto a ten-day since I've seen a soul walking this road, and I've been without decent company since." His voice is what I might term "fussy" and with a curious accent I've never heard before, with a great many rolled _r's_. He cocks his head to one side and a flash of a grin shows through his thick whiskers. "Traveling these days seems to be either the domain of the desperate or the deranged. If I might inquire, which pertains to thee?"

I look at Imoen. She shrugs. I look back at the man. He's nowhere near as weird-looking as Montaron the halfling-dwarf and his insane human friend, but the question…

"Well," I say, "That's something I might put to you as well. Pestering strangers about their mental states doesn't seem very well-adjusted to me."

His moustache breaks into a grin. "Well said," he chuckles. "And thou hast answered that query most precisely. I shall consider thee determined instead. But never mind me. Ahead lies the Friendly Arm, where thy friends await. Farewell."

And, where before he had hobbled, he now picks up his staff and strides past us, down the road we just came up. I turn to say something—and the road behind is empty.

"Um, Di? That was weird," says Imoen.

"I know. A lot of weird people on the road, it seems."

"Including us?"

I look over at her and break a smile. "Yeah, I suppose we qualify too."

We turn and make our way north.

((T))

Author's Note:

I'm not sure why I might need a disclaimer, what with half a billion Baldur's Gate tales out there, but just for caution's sake, I don't own the bloody game. I don't even own Diana's name—"Diana" at least the first name, is from the strategy guide. This is the only time I'll stick this disclaimer here—it wastes space. Adieu.

Oy! Review!

Harlequin137: Welcome to the site! Love the blank page. :-) Is this still appropriate length? And what do you think of the perspective? (I've got my own opinion, but it would be nice to hear another).

Anyone else? No? Right, then. By the way, I've got a bit of goo to ponder on. In this story, the following holds true:

There is no magic. No magic whatsoever. There is only Art.

Two of my references for the FR source material (not including the strat guide, which is a key to this storyline anyway) are _Elminster: the Making of a Mage_ (novel) and _Volo's Guide to the Sword Coast _(c. mid 1990s by TSR). I'll blather about the books more later. Enough writer-talk.

Tallyho.

K. Stramin

19 December 2007


	3. Imoen's Hairbrush

3

At dawn on the seventh, the sun rises into air cold and clear, and the it feels more like winter than ever. Imoen scrambles out of her bedroll and into a fur-lined coat and heavier trousers, which for some reason—oh, never mind, it's just Imoen—are purple as well. I just slither into mine in the bedroll, and after a cheerless breakfast we start out through the chill morning.

We may as well be traveling through Vassa for all the people we meet, but I can't exactly complain. Everyone else we've seen on the road has been either nuts or friendly…but nuts. The next traveler might have tusks and an axe, and come charging after us, and though I'm wearing a sword and have symbols glimmering in my head, I'm not at all certain I could fight. I ran away the night Gorion was killed, and…

Enough of that. Mornings are for other things than sorrow. Last night was enough, and I tried to muffle my sobs so Imoen wouldn't hear. I've dreamt of Gorion every night, of how he was just cut down. The images aren't getting any fainter, as I'd hoped they would.

As the day wears on, clouds creep across the sky. Rain is coming again, and as we pause briefly for a supper of cold sausages that don't taste nearly as good as they did four days ago, the skies rumble and churn. Within an hour, rain comes sleeting down.

If Imoen hadn't caught sight of the lights of the Inn through the rain, we might have taken the wrong path and ended up gods know where, because the road forks just before the gates. We turn right instead, and at long last a towering gray stone gatehouse emerges from the rain, glistening. Two guards stand just inside, leaning on their spears and gossiping. They pause as we come near.

"Welcome to the Friendly Arm," says one in gruff tones, as we pass into the dryness under the gatehouse. Here it is well-lighted by hanging lanterns and relatively dry. One of the guards steps in front of us as. "I trust you know the rules."

I shrug, dripping water everywhere. "Common sense."

He stares at me. Then he grins. "That's the shortest I've ever heard it. Go on in."

Lightning flares as we walk back out into the mud. I look up to see the Friendly Arm itself silhouetted against dead-gray clouds by the flash. Light pours from arrow-slits on all three floors, and even from way out here I can hear piping from within.

The Inn is actually a compound with several buildings, most notably what looks like a temple of sorts off to the right, but we make for the keep. Imoen walks along beside, huddled up and drenched like me.

Puddles have already collected underfoot, and we navigate between them as best we can. I don't want to put a boot down into a puddle and soak the boot, sock, and foot in freezing water. The rest of me is wet enough, not the boot, thank you.

"Hey."

The voice is so low I don't hear it at first, and only when I note someone standing at the bottom of the flight of steps leading into the entryway of the inn do I stop. He's entirely covered in a great gray cloak, glistening with rain, but for a hand that grips a staff planted in a puddle.

At first I don't think he's talking to us and try to push past him, but he reaches out with his staff and blocks the way. He shoves his hood back. Water drips down his goatee and off his nose. His eyes are bright, and brighter with reflected flashes of lightning.

"You stay right there, and tell me your name."

He's cultured, but his manner is not. He steps forward and nearly shoves me back as I take a quick step away. "Are you Diana Shael'sa?" He says my last name in two syllables, "Shale-sa".

My blood goes colder than it already is. "What do you want?"

"Nothing much," he says. "Just you dead."

His right hand blazes with sudden purple light, and I can't move. I stand there in the pouring rain, mouth half-open, eyes fixed on him. I try to scream, to jump, to free my sword and attack him, but I can't move a muscle. It's as if my mind has been totally disconnected from my body. _Holding_, the spell is called, and I've walked right into it.

"It's a pity," he says, dropping his staff and reaching toward his belt. "You're so pretty." He pulls free a dagger.

Violet light flashes to one side and I catch the briefest glimpse of a searing pinprick of light flying through the air before it hits him in the side of the head. It head snaps to the side and the dagger goes spinning into the mud as Imoen charges at him. She has her short sword in hand and is moving so quickly she almost slips. He starts to turn toward her. I can see blood spilling down the side of his head. Then Imoen reaches him and rams the sword point-first into his midsection. It's a short blade, not more than two feet long, but it comes dripping out of his back. The only sound is the rain but I can hear the liquid _swish_ as it goes into him. Or maybe it's just me, remembering Carbos.

Imoen jerks it out and stabs him again, even as he begins to fall. I see his eyes go blank and I'm suddenly able to move again—the spell is broken by his death. Imoen lets him fall into the mud and looks at me. Her eyes are wide and frightened. "Di, are you okay?"

I'm suddenly gasping for air. Was I breathing before? "Imoen!"

"What?"

"You killed him!"

She blinks, then looks down at the sword in her hand. She looks suddenly sick. It's perhaps the most tactless thing I've ever said, and she responds exactly the way I did. She drops to her knees and throws up the sausages.

I kneel down beside her. "It's okay, Imoen." It's odd, now I'm the one comforting _her_. The man—the _mage_—lies still in the mud, without a twitch. Imoen waves me away. Rain gets inside my hood and trickles down my neck.

I kneel in the mud beside the body. The staff is plain wood, but he has a pouch beneath his robes. I pull it free and look around. No one else is around. There are a dozen houses at the edges of the compound, and everyone is inside. The guards didn't notice and are still underneath the gatehouse. I hope no one will mind a body, and the thought is so callous it shocks me.

Imoen rises to her feet, wiping her face with a sodden sleeve. I take her by the arm. "Come on, Imoen." I think I'm too cold to be much more shocked by someone else trying to kill me, but I'm still thinking _so soon? Are they _everywhere

We go up sturdy wooden steps, into the brightness and warmth of the keep's taproom.

((A))

The taproom is full of warm yellow light, and is actually _warm. _Heat pours from a great central fireplace where clothes have been laid out to dry on the bricks. The rest of the room is devoted to circular tables with chairs spaced around them. A bar sits back against the far wall, and kegs and one huge barrel which has to be a tun sits even further back. A very short man with a huge nose goes back and forth on a long raised platform on the other side of the bar, refilling tankards. He looks over at us for the briefest of moments, then goes back to his customers. Most of the patrons have tankards before them, and one group in the far left-hand corner look to be drunk. Most of the others sit silent, occasionally pulling at their tankards.

We go over to a table in the nearest corner and sit. I can feel Imoen trembling. "It's okay, Imoen."

"I can't believe it." Her voice is so low I can barely hear it.

"It's okay." It seems like the first time I've seen her anything other than cheerful, and it's frightening me too. "He was trying to kill me."

"Why?" her voice is small and scared, as if she isn't sure she's the one speaking, and doesn't want to raise her voice to check.

"I don't know, Imoen." It's amazing how calm I sound. I push back my hood and note that a puddle is gathering around us. One of the tavern girls looks over at us, and I lift a hand. A minute later, she comes over. "Whatchaget?"

"Nothing," I say. "But I'm looking for some people."

"If you ain't ordering, I don't really have a reason to talk."

I sigh and search for my money pouch. "Ales," I say, "And a question," as I hand over coppers.

She looks much happier now. Her long blonde hair is done up in a huge ponytail and her blue skirt goes from hip to toes. "What is it?"

"I want to know if Khalid or Jaheira are here."

She frowns. "Oh, them. Yeah, sure."

"Where would they be?"

"'Tis suppertime. They're in the far corner." She gestures across the room, across and seemingly at a dozen different people. "I'll getcha ales right quick." She trots off.

Imoen has stopped trembling. "Are you better?"

"No." Then she reconsiders. "Maybe a little. Di, that was horrible."

"I know. But if you hadn't done that I'd be dead, Imoen. He was pulling a dagger."

She pats my arm, still around her. "Okay, Di."

"I think we might have found Khalid and Jaheira. Wait here, will you?"

She nods and I slide off the bench and cross the room. A fight starts when I'm halfway across, but almost immediately ends as one man nails another squarely in the face with a loaded tankard. A great cry goes up, something to the effect of, "Oh, not the _ale!_"

I'm still halfway across the room when I catch sight of them. The names fit no one else on that side of the room. Khalid sits with his back to me, and most of what I can see is a yellow tunic with a long, single-layered cloth wrapping around his neck and shoulders. His hair is brown and unkempt, and poking up from it are the tips of two partially pointed ears.

Jaheira sits directly across from him, and as I study Khalid, I notice her gaze move from the fight to me. She looks at me as if I am some sort of insect. Then I see her frown. She slides her chair out and gets to her feet, saying something to Khalid, and a moment later he turns to look at me.

I raise a hand in the age-old sign that says _hey there_.

Jaheira, followed by Khalid, crosses the floor and stops before me. I feel movement behind me, and realize that Imoen has joined me again.

Jaheira's gaze has changed from one of bored disinterest to one of keen study. "Khalid? You see it as well?"

There's the confirmation I needed. "Khalid and Jaheira?"

"I am Jaheira," she says. I notice an accent of some sort that I can't quite place. Something about it reminds me of Thorass, the "tongue of nobles" that so many of the sages around Candlekeep speak, but there is something more foreign about it. "And you remind me very much of Gorion."

I swallow. "I need your help."

Jaheira's cold gaze flickers. "Come," she says. "There is too much noise here. Upstairs is much more quiet."

She turns toward a staircase which switchbacks up one wall, and goes up before I can protest. Khalid nods and smiles at me—a little nervously, I think—and gestures for me to follow.

((A))

The second level of the Inn is more spacious and definitely quieter. Rooms open off of a square, central chamber, and because the rooms separate this place from the outer stone walls, and a fireplace connected via a chimney to the one on the floor below flickers and smolders, it's much warmer as well.

Several more comfortable chairs sit around the fire. Jaheira glances at the closed doors all around, checking, then sinks into one. Khalid takes the one next to her, and Imoen and I sit. It's wonderful to simply be able to relax. Then I realize my wet garments are soaking the chair, and I leapt up and pull off my sodden coat.

Khalid and Jaheira wait until Imoen and I have finished and our outer garments are piled on the floor. As we sink into warm chairs once again, Jaheira leans forward. "You are Gorion's child, are you not? Diana?"

I nod. "I am. And this is Imoen, my friend."

Imoen smiles. "Heya. Don't mind me. I'm just tagging along."

Khalid smiles, nervous again. Jaheira looks over Imoen with the same cool gaze she reserved for me.

"Gorion is not here," says Jaheira. "That can only mean that something has gone very wrong."

I nod, unable to speak. Khalid touches his forehead with two fingers, then stares at the floor. He's actually a rather handsome half-elf. I can tell he's not full-blooded from the shortness of his ears and the human-like rounding of his chin. But he has something of the elven in the slant to his eyes, and in the nimbleness of his fingers that are now plucking absently at the hem of his shirt.

He stares into space, then brings himself back with a jerk. "I am sorry," he says, and I detect the faintest trace of a stutter on the first word. He smiles, nervous, and says, "If…" he sighs and continues. "If he has passed, we mourn with you."

I nod in thanks and look back at Jaheira. She dominated the room not with speech, but rather with that cold gaze. It has suddenly softened. "He was an old friend of ours," she says. "I am sorry."

Like Khalid, Jaheira bears the marks of one who is half Tel'Quessir, and half human, but she has retained more of the elven side, which I suppose is where the glare comes from. It shows in the sharpness of her chin as well as in the point of her ears. For a long moment she turns her gaze downward, either in sorrow or reverence or remembrance, I do not know which. When she looks up, her eyes are hard again. "How did it happen?"

Haltingly, assisted by Imoen when I cannot speak, I tell what has happened in the past few days. Jaheira's eyes narrow and her lip curls as I speak of the fight on the blasted heath.

"And then tonight, right on the steps of the inn, someone else tried to kill me. A mage."

Jaheira's thin lips compress to a thinner line. "Did you know him?"

I shake my head, then recall the mage's pouch. "I took this off of him," I say, digging it out of my pack. It weighs about five pounds and is made of brown leather. I unbutton it and find inside a mound of silver and gold coins, and mashed between them a scroll bound with a blue string.

"Let us see, Diana," says Jaheira.

I pull out the scroll and open it. Light from the fire flickers on the parchment and the words, writ as well as a scribe can make.

_Be it known to all those of evil intent, that a bounty has been placed upon the head of Diana Shael'sa, the foster child of Gorion the sage._

_Last seen in the area of Candlekeep, this person is to be killed in short order. Those presenting proof of the deed shall receive no less than two hundred coins of gold._

_As always, any who reveal these plans to the forces of law shall join the target in her fate._

The note is unsigned and otherwise unmarked. Imoen reads it over my shoulder and I hear her gasp.

"A bounty," says Jaheira, with one raised eyebrow. "You have certainly caught the attention of unkind people, Shael'sa."

She pronounces my last name in Elvish, with three syllables—Shay el sa.. I glance at her ears but say nothing.

"I can see why you want help," says Khalid. "And you have it." He even sounds nervous when he speaks, and I can see a faint tic at the corner of his mouth.

"Ever the sacrificee, Gorion was," she says at last. "Gorion said when you were much younger, that if ever he should pass on, we should be your guardians."

"Um, excuse me," says Imoen, waving a hand timidly. "I mean, Di might know who you are, but could you explain to me?"

_Good call Imoen_. Jaheira looks taken aback for a moment. "Yes," she says. "That would be best. Khalid? Do you have any burning desire to go first?"

Khalid looks at her. "Well," he says, without a trace of nervousness. "No _desire_ to go _first_…"

The faintest flicker of a smile flashes across Jaheira's face, and when it leaves, she looks at him fondly. "Very well." She looks back at me. "I am Jaheira. I walk the woods and I speak with nature. I was Gorion's friend, and if you allow I will be yours, as well."

Khalid leans forward. I notice now that he's actually shorter than I am, and has an almost charming nose that is just a little too large for his face. The thought startles me, and then I think _why not? They're Gorion's friends? Why not? You can't not trust everyone, Di._ It sounds almost as if Imoen is speaking in my head, and I smile.

"I call myself Khalid," he says. The nervousness is back in his voice, and his hands switch from unraveling the hem of his tunic to fiddling with the brass fittings on the chair arms. "I carry a sword. I was Gorion's friend, and Jaheira and I are one. We will be your friends, if you allow."

I blink, because he spoke part of that in Thorass, using the term "to be one" which translates into Common as "married". I blink. "You're married?"

Jaheira lets out a smile that is nearly a grimace. "You find this surprising?"

"Well, yes, actually."

"Why?"

"Well, it's that you seem so different," says Imoen, surprised as well.

Khalid smiles. "More than one has said that, eh Jaheira?"

She smiles back and speaks a phrase in Elvish I don't quite catch. The last word is _ani_, loved one.

"I suppose we should all do that," says Imoen. "You can't know me either." She shrugs. "I'm Imoen, nice to meet you. I like picking things up."

_And not putting them back down_, I want to add, because Imoen became very well known for pinching small items and putting them back in different places before we…before now.

"I'm Diana Shael'sa," I say, feeling self-conscious though, or maybe because, I'm the last. "I'll be the first to say I know very little of traveling on the road, and little of anything outside of Candlekeep. I've lived there so long…I thought there would be time to learn these after I left."

"You have the blood of the _Tel'Quessir_," says Jaheira.

I nod. "On my mother's side."

"Yes. Gorion has told us much about you. And if you do come with us, you will have time to learn what you do not know now." She pronounces each word carefully. I get the feeling Jaheira's not entirely comfortable with Common.

_I thought there would be more time before I left Candlekeep…except it's all coming down now._

Jaheira shrugs, and waits until the conversation fades away into the crackle of the fire. "As I said," she continues, picking up the previous line. "Gorion spoke to us of becoming your guardians should he ever pass on. But that was a long time ago, and you are no longer a child. It is up to you to make your own way."

"Though," says Khalid, with a look at her, "We could assist. Help you make your way, find what path you may want."

"I would like that."

"Then consider it done," says Jaheira. "So long as you do not mind washing dishes or building fires."

"Jaheira! M-manners," says Khalid, this time actually stuttering. Jaheira shrugs, and I begin to recognize the gesture as a throwing off of her own cold demeanor.

"Any reason I can't come too?" asks Imoen. I look over at her, then at them.

"It is not my decision," says Jaheira. "Both of you are welcome if you choose."

I smile. For the first time since I awoke beneath the tree the night after Gorion's murder, warmth steals into my bones again, though it might be from the fire.

"However," says Jaheira, "If you do wish to travel with us you should know we plan to move south tomorrow. We have spent enough time here, no, Khalid?"

Khalid nods and takes over. "We've been requested to go to Nashkel, to look into some troubles there concerning the iron shortage. You know of this? It is what we do."

I frown, remembering. "You're not the only ones going down there. I met some people on the road who were heading down there as well."

Jaheira flashes Khalid a look. "Perhaps we are too late even now."

He shrugs. "If the trouble is dealt with, that is good. If n-not…"

"True. Then, Diana Shael'sa, you find no objection?"

"I don't," I say. "Imoen?"

"You're all buffleheaded," she says, grinning. And I realize that the warmth didn't come from the fire after all.

((A))

Though it is already late in the night, Jaheira insists that we go back down to the taproom. "If you wish to travel with us, you may wish to listen. Travel on the roads of the Sword Coast is not safe now, especially with the iron shortage."

I'd heard something of it when still at Candlekeep, but like most things it was outside the walls and thus not that important compared to my chores or my imagination. "What's going on with the iron?"

"We are not certain, but we have been asked to look into it and discover the cause, and perhaps fix it. In any case, the town of Nashkel itself lies at least seven days walk south and between here and there are woods and rocks that may hide foes."

We cross the taproom toward the gnome and his bar. There are fewer people now, and he has time to lean back and talk instead of filling tankards every minute. Jaheira looks over at me. "I am surprised you did not encounter anything on your journey here."

"Like what?"

She shrugs. "Xvarts, perhaps. They are small creatures, kin to kobolds it is said. They are much the same too, vicious and brutal creatures despite their size." She knocks on the bar. "Mirrorshade!"

The gnome comes down our way. He has an enormously thick pair of spectacles perched on his nose, something I'd not noticed before. "Yes?"

"Do you have any spare shirts of chain?"

He frowns at her, then at me. "I'll see," he says, and confers with one of his servers, who disappears downstairs.

"You mean for me to wear armor?"

"It is wise," says Jaheira. "As well as your friend Imoen. Though it is uncomfortable, it is much better than losing your life to a single wild arrow. We are four, and there is strength in numbers, but a single volley can cut down a dozen unarmored travelers in a blink of the eye.

"Do you have armor?"

"Yes. But I do not wear chain. It is heavy."

"It certainly is," I say, remembering hours of training with Jondalar. "I don't think I want to wear it all day long. I am also a mage, Jaheira."

Jaheira frowns over at me. "Perhaps you are right."

Twenty minutes later we're back on our way upstairs, Jaheira carrying my new leather armor and I carrying two steaming bowls of soup.

Back on the second floor, Jaheira explains the differences between leather pants and leather armor. I already know them, and even if I didn't they'd be obvious. The suit she's bought for me stretches from my collarbones to my hips, and reminds me of the restraint jackets the Watchers sometimes use on recalcitrant guests.

It ends at my shoulders, allowing my arms free movement, but it's still horribly uncomfortable. I make a mental note to cut it to size as soon as possible. It scrapes on my collarbones and my breasts. "Can I change the shape?" I ask, suspecting the answer but wanting a second opinion.

"You would be better off having something made especially for you," says Khalid. " It would function better, especially in the, uh," and he turns an interesting shade of pink. "The pectoral area," he says at last.

"What about me?" says Imoen. "I don't even know how to wear armor."

Jaheira's nose twitches. "That may be a problem. Can you fight?"

Imoen opens her mouth, gives me a glance, and closes it. "I suppose," she says. "But I prefer fighting locks."

Jaheira shrugs. "If we are attacked on the road we can hope that they do not aim for you, or that they are unpracticed. That is how you wish it?"

Imoen nods, and Jaheira turns haughtily back to me. "Is there anything else?"

"I don't see anything," I say. Her attitude rankles, though it's probably just me. It's also been a long, cold day.

"Very well," she says. "Meet us in the taproom tomorrow morning, around seven bells."

I nod, and she and Khalid turn toward their room. Khalid pauses, turns back, and shrugs at me. He gives a helpless smile, and I smile back. He follows Jaheira.

"She seems a little mean," says Imoen, inspecting my new leather. "Doesn't this itch?"

"It will soon enough." I pick up my bowl and begin eating. Imoen notices hers. "Oh!" And she takes it up as well.

We eat in silence. The soup tastes of potatoes and celery, and is wonderfully hot. My hair is still damp and I begin to wish I'd brought a hairbrush. It's going to be a mess tomorrow. Then I look over at Imoen. "Uh, Imoen, did you by any chance bring a hairbrush?"

She smiles. "Sure thing, Di."

I sigh with relief, and for the briefest of moments, all seems right in the world, because I'm warm and full of delicious food, and Imoen has brought a hairbrush.

((T))

Author's Note: Those reading may have noticed that I have no intention of rushing. On fictionpress (my preferred site) I average twenty-page chapters and finish them months in advance, so this "hot off the press" story is rather interesting. I spell-check, proofread and edit the first draft, and post the second, so you may see mistakes. Please let me know—at some time in the future I'll re-edit and repost with the corrections.

For those interested in the mechanics of this, I'm messing with 2nd Edition D&D rules and giving Diana leather armor. It's just dumb not to. Mages wear armor now in the Forgotten Realms. The reasons are obvious and will become more obvious.

For those of a more…well, shall we say politely, narrow-minded bent, I'll let you know right now this story is not going to turn out as most stories about Baldur's Gate. It's got its own quirks which you will see if you continue. Some you may not like. I believe they're all worth it.

For those interested in bibliographies, I'm also using A Grand Tour of the Realms from the 2nd Edition FR campaign set and several other books I'll speak of on the way along. Most of what I'm using is outdated…but then, the game came out nine years ago, so they're pretty much up to date.

Oy! Review!

Harlequin: …? If you consider this long, what exactly is short? ½ a page? Well, you're right. But truth be told this is short for one of my chapters. And thank you for the advice about differing perspectives—believe it or not that one popped into my head around noon today before I read that.

Thanks for reviewing, once again.

K. Stramin

20 December 2007

11ish at night


	4. Lessons in Armor

4

_8__th__ Uktar, 1369_

_Five days ago I was happy. Now, I'm not, but I'm not as unhappy as I was._

_Four days ago my foster father died._

I look down at those few lines on a folded piece of parchment, and can't decide whether to laugh or cry. I settle for a hiccup.

_I say "foster" because that's technically true, but Gorion is my father, in all but blood._

I blink, then scratch out "is" and replace it with "was".

A soft knock on the door. "Di?"

I look up. I'm sitting on my bed in the room Imoen and I shared last night. The walls are stone and the beds are at least a foot away from them on all sides, with extra-thick blankets.

Imoen stands in the doorway, already in purple. I think she's got three or four of those suits, and this one doesn't have stains at the knees—it's clean. All of my clothes were soaked and muddy. Good thing Gorion had the coins he did. He'd planned on something, definitely, and had enough in his coin purse to keep us well up for several weeks.

Where were we going to go?

I don't know if I'll ever know, and now with Imoen standing there, I'm sure I'm not going to be able to finish this entry. As if I was getting anywhere. The sun is rising, and Khalid and Jaheira will probably be throwing their gear into their own packs. In a few minutes they'll be at the door, demanding to know why I'm not ready.

I don't quite understand them. Maybe it's because I have so little experience with life on the road. Imoen's obviously had more than me; even after four days she still bounces on her feet. But then, Imoen never stops smiling. As for me, my feet ache with burst and raw blisters, and my back still aches from where I caught that flaming dart, though it has begun to fade. I'm glad my pack is pretty light.

Feet in boots clomp down the hallway, and Khalid's voice sounds, even more nervous than usual. "Uh, uh, Imoen?"

She turns into the hallway. "Yeah?"

"Is…is Diana up?"

"Yeah."

A pause. "Is she, uh," and I can literally _hear_ Khalid turn pink. "Dressed?" he finishes, almost on a squeak.

"Yeah," says Imoen, barely repressing a giggle.

Feet clomp. Khalid steps into the doorway. "Sorry, Imoen," he says as he brushes past her. "Fair morn, Diana."

"Morn, Khalid. Maybe fair."

He smiles. He has a surprisingly nice smile. "Jaheira wants to be ready in fifteen minutes."

"I'll be. Actually, I am. What about mornfest?"

"Downstairs," says Khalid, and Imoen and I follow him down the hall.

He looks different this morning, probably because he now has on a thick padded coat designed to cushion the weight of his armor, which is still in his room. Even with my limited knowledge, I can see why he wouldn't want to wear it until he had to—Jondalar and I trained in mail for several weeks and I got bruises along the tops of my shoulder blades and at the base of my skull. I haven't put on my leather yet, and am not sure I want to. But chain would be worse—it _definitely_ would pinch in the wrong areas.

I think I've been up since before them. I don't sleep well now—I dream. Not of Gorion, not always at least, but not much of it is pleasant. I'm surprised Imoen hasn't commented about the shadows under my eyes.

The great fireplace is dead this morning. We come to the room Khalid and Jaheira shared last night. Cautious, I peer in.

Jaheira already wears her leather, which has been custom-made to accommodate her figure and yes, she's throwing things into her pack. In an orderly fashion, but they still fly through the air. A pair of leather gauntlets are tucked into her belt, and leaning against the wall is a seven-foot spear with a wooden shaft and wickedly pointed steel tip. Lying on the bed amidst a mass of leather and buckles is a curiously curved sword in a scabbard.

I look over at Khalid and realize he's also armed—a sword hangs from his left side from an assortment of straps. It looks almost too big for him to use in one hand, though it's only a normal long sword, but I note that he moves easily enough.

"Jaheira, darling, are we ready?"

Jaheira flings a last tunic into her pack and turns. "Almost," she says. Her voice is rougher this morning. "I will be downstairs in a few minutes. Go and eat, Khalid."

Khalid looks at us. "Go ahead," he says, and steps into the room. After a look at Imoen—she shrugs—we turn and go downstairs.

((A))

Mornfest is thick porridge, hot enough to steam, with plenty of honey. Like last night's soup, it seems the best meal I've had since leaving Candlekeep and I spoon it up greedily. We sit at one of the round tables near the bar.

The taproom is quieter this morning as well. Only the bent, large-nosed gnome in blue robes behind the gnome-sized bar is present besides us. All the roistering boisterers of last night have departed and the floor shows bits of broken bottle in places. I'm glad I have my boots on. Across the way, Imoen plays with her fork.

"It's weird," she says at last.

"What is?"

"Khalid and Jaheira."

"How so?" I've got my own opinions, but don't doubt they'll get out soon enough. They tend to.

"They took the news so casually."

"News?"

Imoen looks over at me. "Gorion."

I almost choke but force it down. "Oh."

"It didn't seem the first time they'd heard it." About death, she means. I think as I eat, trying to come up with something.

"It probably wasn't. I mean, look, Imoen, they're fighters."

"I know. You are too."

"And you."

She shrugs. "Last night, that man…I don't ever want to feel that way again."

I look down at my porridge, dripping off the end of my spoon. There's a dull ache somewhere near the center of my chest. "I know what you mean, Imoen."

It's been longer for me. That's the only reason I'm not staring at my food just like her. No wonder she's not hungry. "And that he was trying to kill me makes no difference?"

She shrugs unhappily. "It does, but not in that way. I would do it again, Di, I think…"

"But you wouldn't like it."

Again the shrug. "I don't know. That's the weird thing."

I look up, startled. "You mean you _would_ like it?"

Imoen swallows. "I don't like this, Di."

"No wonder."

Khalid comes down the stairs, surprisingly quiet now despite his boots, and Imoen drops the conversation like a burning log. Khalid gets his porridge and sits down on my left. We eat in silence, but my mind is working, and halfway through I say, "Khalid, would it be rude of me to ask a question?"

He studies his spoon. "I c-can't very well answer that until I know the question, Diana."

"Okay then, but please don't take this the wrong way."

He looks up. For the first time he looks a little annoyed rather than nervous. "What is it?"

"I was wondering where Jaheira got her accent."

He relaxes. "Ah." He spoons up porridge and lets it drip back into the bowl. "I don't think answering that would be a problem, Diana, but I'm not the one to ask. That's Jaheira's tale to tell."

His voice is gentle, but I detect a rebuke. "Sorry. It's just that you're…"

"Here." He ducks his head in a nod, nervous again. "Yes well, the way things are turning out, we'll be together for some time. There will be plenty of times for questions both ways. F-for example, I've never been inside Candlekeep. Is it as grand as they say?"

I smile, and spend the rest of mornfest entertaining Khalid with tales of just how "grand" Candlekeep is. It even brings Imoen out of her funk, and she joins in at times. I resolve to talk to her more about it later.

((A))

Jaheira joins us in the midst, but she does not interrupt and I don't halt the tales to ask her my question. I file it away for future querying. This morning, she looks a bit more open than last night. She also took advantage of the Inn's nice warm baths, because her hair once again curls gently down to her shoulders and frames her face. Perhaps that's why it seems softer today.

"So," Imoen says as she scoops at the bottom of her wooden bowl. "How far away is Nashkel?"

"Seven days south," says Khalid, "By foot. Which is the usual way, unless we're in the market for some steeds, Jaheira?"

"No. We spent enough getting here. We walk the rest of the way with Eliea."

I pause. "Eliea?"

The corner of Khalid's mouth twitches. "J-Jaheira named him. Her." He looks at Jaheira. "It?"

She shrugs. "It is our pack mule."

"Ah." That was why I didn't recognize it. "Eliea" is an amalgamation of the words "him" and "her". "Why are we walking?" I ask. "What would horses cost?"

She shrugs. "Five gold."

"You don't want them?"

She casts me a look and shrugs again. "Understand, Diana, that there is no endless supply of gold coins. What we have, we spend carefully. Khalid and I fight for money, most of the time. Or we solve problems, which is why we go to Ghastkill in Nashkel. Truth be told, it has been some time since we earned a great deal. Not that we are running low," she amends, "But it is better to spend it only on what is worth it. In your life, I suspect your feet will take you further than any other way of travel. Not because it is best, but because it is cheapest."

Khalid smiles across at me. "Knowledge from the wise. I'd take it under advisement."

So I do, filing it away as well. "When do we leave?"

"When I pay Mirrorshade the last days price. And you as well." She rises and goes to the bar.

I'd almost forgotten that. I dig the price of our rooms out of Gorion's coin pouch, tucked away in my pack.

Khalid rises. "More advice?"

Kneeling on the floor next to my pack, I look up at him. "Sure."

He kneels as well. "You've got quite a bit here. Care to lend us some?" Before I can protest I see his smile. He pulls out the coin pouch. "This is a lot of money. I wouldn't want to pull it out every time I bought something. For one, it draws attention of all kinds. It's also more easily droppable. Do you have a smaller one?"

It was so commonsensical I hadn't thought of it. "Oh."

"Just put as much as you can in that, and tuck this away until you need to refill the other. It makes you seem poorer than you are."

"Yeah, I see."

Khalid stands. It strikes me as just a little odd that I'm not nervous around him. But then, he was Gorion's friend, and he's actually shorter than I, and there's absolutely nothing threatening in either his words or his manner. He smiles, nods, and goes back over to the other side of the table, slightly pink at the tops of his ears.

I pay for the rooms. Bentley Mirrorshade is a cheerful old gnome who grins at me and bobs his head, and talks in a squeaky voice which belies his authority. According to Khalid and Jaheira, at the moment Bentley and Gellana Mirrorshade _are_ the Friendly Arm. They brought it up out of ruin some years ago and turned it successful, with no small help from their own abilities.

I repack my pack as Khalid told me, and as I finish, Jaheira and Khalid finish their porridge. Khalid rises, stretches, and takes both bowls over to the bar. When he comes back, I say, "That's a nice gesture."

He shrugs, almost apologetic. "Why make them come over here?" He bends and lifts his mail shirt. It's formed entirely of quarter-inch steel rings and must weigh thirty pounds. He shrugs his way into it, disappearing up to his waist for a moment before he shoves his arms out the sleeves and pops his head out the top. It settles around him with that odd, fluid metallic sound chain mail has. Then he reaches for the half-breastplate on the floor and begins buckling it on as well. I note that Jaheira is buckling on a form-fitting steel breastplate as well. "You go well-armored," I note.

"It's sometimes necessary," says Jaheira. "When we reach Beregost we will see about obtaining you and Imoen some better protection."

Against her protestations, she also bought Imoen a leather breastplate. Imoen hates it as much as I do. Neither Imoen nor I have them on yet. Jaheira looks over at us. "Your armor?"

I sigh. I know precisely how logical the argument is, but it doesn't make it any more comfortable to wear the thing for hours every day when it rubs in such tender places. "When we get to Beregost," I mutter. "How far is Beregost?"

"Four days by foot. And if you have anything you don't need most of the time, we can just put it in Eliea's saddlebags."

That's a relief. Still reluctant, I put one arm through one side of my crude leather armor and begin buckling up the other side. In moments, I feel like a brown clam. At least it doesn't smell. Imoen gets hers on as well, though hers fits even tighter than mine.

Khalid picks up his pack from the floor. It's just a leather bag with one side hardened and formed so it rests easier against his back, much like ours. It doesn't seem to have much in it. He slips it on and picks up from the floor three last objects. The first is a quiver filled with willow arrows as long as my arm. It has straps like his backpack, and he slings it on just like one. The other is his unstrung bow. He ponders it for a minute, and then goes about stringing it. I look over to see Imoen doing the same.

Khalid slings his bow over his shoulder and picks up a round shield with a leather strap. He slings it over his other shoulder, leaving his arms free.

I have just my untested sword and two daggers, one Gorion's, one on my hip opposite my sword. Jaheira inspects her staff, slaps the hilt of the curved sword strapped low on her left hip, and nods.

"We are ready."

((A))

Even before we leave of the compound walls, Jaheira has begun lecturing me about why exactly it is better to put the food in Eliea's saddlebags. I have no complaints. My back still aches and my pack weighs heavily though nearly all the food _is_ in the saddlebags.

Once we step out of the gatehouse, Khalid and Jaheira set a brisk pace. Khalid leans forward a trifle as he walks, probably to balance out his pack and shield, while Jaheira uses her spear as a walking stick. Imoen and I trail behind, trying to keep up. They walk faster than we did.

The remnants of last night's downpour have left the road cold and slick. I'm glad for my fur-lined jacket. It was a present last highharvestide, that is, last fall, from Gorion. The air is chill and Imoen flips up her hood. Jaheira has lent me an extra pair of gloves because my hands are so close to her size. It's much better than bare hands, especially if I've got to use my sword, and it's much nicer right now in the cold.

I'm still not sure I would be able to use my sword, anyway.

_10__th__ Uktar_, I write after we've stopped the second night. The only times I have to write are early in the morning or late when everyone else is asleep. Usually, it's too cold. Winter is drawing down, though it's only the eleventh month and the worst of the cold doesn't come until Hammer, the month after next.

_It's cold. It's getting colder. I hope we get to Beregost soon. I'm still having bad dreams. My fingers are too cold. Goodnight, journal._

Jaheira does not speak much while on the road. She does her talking before we set out in the morning or after the fire is lit beside the road. Two nights she says, "The trees are watching. Keep the fire banked." And so all there is for light is Selune in the sky above, shifting this early in the month from a pale white orb away into nothing, the beginning of a new cycle.

Nothing attacks us. Khalid expresses mild surprise about this, saying, "Last time we came down this way, weren't we ambushed by half a dozen hobgoblins?" Jaheira shushes him, and I'm tempted to as well. Saying things like that invites Beshaba's ire and amusement.

Nevertheless, we reach the outskirts of Beregost without incident, but for one.

On the third day as we're going along the road we hear the sound of hooves, rapidly approaching. We clear the road and watch as a man in royal purple robes tears by on a fine horse, a satchel under his arm.

After he has passed by and we stand on the road, looking north whence he went, I ask, "Who was that?"

"A messenger," says Jaheira. "Bringing news from the south. A pity we did not stop and ask him what has occurred."

((A))

Jaheira stands looking down the Coast Way into Beregost, and says, "This city is a blight on the landscape. Better to have let the land grow wild." I'm surprised at the venom in her voice, but no one seems to notice. She looks at Khalid. "Let us be done with our business as soon as possible and return to the trees."

I've been to Beregost only a few times, with Gorion to visit friends. I barely remember the last trip, some six years ago, and either I got it wrong when I was there or it has changed since I left. We meander through the streets, taking in houses and shops, and the curious little gardens that lie beside many houses, their herbs now brown and shriveled by cold.

In four days my feet have begun to harden to the road, though I still have a nasty, fading sore on my right big toe. One night Khalid and Jaheira noticed me wincing as I removed my boots, and I spent the night with a packet of herbs on my foot. It's worked surprisingly well.

Jaheira reminds Imoen and I about our armor. As if we needed it. Khalid offered several days ago to help improve our combat skills and both Imoen and I declined because of the armor. I think I've got a rash—I've never worn armor for such a continuous time in my life.

We turn left down a cobbled street, past a massive pyramidal pillar inset with glass. Below it, inscribed in white granite, is "BEREGOST".

The buildings of Beregost vary between wood and stone. Most are stone foundations with wooden walls and roofs. Many are more than one story, and most have peaked, stone or clay-tiled roofs. The city sprawls out across several natural meadows and is paved between them with wide white cobblestones which are kept mostly clean. Smoke rises from many chimneys and fills the air in places with the scent of burning pine. Jaheira wrinkles her nose.

Though no people are evident on this particular street, the sounds of a city buzz and swell about us—chickens cluck somewhere nearby, someone shouts from three streets away, and underlying it all is a constant murmur, many voices speaking far away, but nearby.

We come out onto a broad street lined with houses and shops on both sides. At the far end on the left is a massive black-stone building with three chimneys. Hanging out front is an equally large wooden sign proclaiming the place as "Thunderhammer Smithy"

"Yes," says Khalid, brightening. "Just the place, Jaheira." She gives him a look and he smiles back. Odd, when talks to here her he doesn't seem nervous at all. I don't quite understand that.

Jaheira gestures me in. "We will wait here."

((A))

The interior is dim and somewhat smoky. It smells like burning coal. Across a large room three men are engaged in fashioning some sort of metal implement with two hammers and a bellows. They are tall and broad-shouldered. A long, low counter runs the length of the room on this side, splitting it into two sections. As Imoen and I step inside, blinking, the biggest man I've ever seen steps away from another forge in the corner and comes toward us.

He's at least seven feet tall, and broad as an ox at the shoulders. His face is ruddy and half-concealed behind an enormous pair of muttonchop whiskers, below which is a huge set of square white teeth, grinning. He is also covered in soot.

"Oy there," he says, in tones I instantly recognize as coming from somewhere near Waterdeep. "Welcome to me smithy. I'm Taerom, proprietor. Ye didn't just walk in here wantin to see what we do, right?"

"No. Actually, we may have the wrong place." I gesture at the badly fitted leather plate across my chest. "Do you sell leather?"

He looks at my armor. Then he breaks out in booming guffaws that draw the attention of the other half dozen smiths. "Do I sell _that?_" He slaps a hand on the counter, tears streaming down his face. "No, lass, I wouldn't stake a copper on that piece of hide even if I had but one arm. Armor is what I make, not cowhides."

Frowning, wondering why Khalid and Jaheira told me to come here, I say, "So you can't make me leather?"

"_Make?_ Ay, now that's a different matter. I can _make_ anything ye blasted well please. Outta metal, course, I'm not the expert on hides, that'd be Davil over there. I'm assuming you want something better than what ye're wearing now, right?"

((A))

We leave Thunderhammer Smithy fifteen minutes later and find Khalid waiting for us. Jaheira is nowhere to be seen. "Where'd she go?"

"To find rooms for the night," says Khalid. "We knew it'd take awhile to get it made. They got your—" he stops and his ears turn pink again. "Measurements?"

I can't quite understand his reticence about mentioning things like that, but it's better than too much interest. I nod. "Where did she go?"

"There's a place we usually stay, called the Jovial Juggler. N-no," he says, with a nervous grin as I give him a look, "They don't have jugglers, but there is a lot of dancing."

"Good food?"

"Fairly."

"Decent beds?"

He shrugs.

"No snakes in the mattresses?"

He gives me a startled look. I grin at him. He relaxes. "Well, not at _this_ particular inn. I do remember a t-time when we were in Luskan, however…"

As he launches into another stuttered story, I wonder how many places he and Jaheira have been. Stuttered his tale may be, but Khalid was there, and his warm smile throughout is what keeps my attention.

"Hey," says Imoen, stepping in beside him. "Come on and show me the city, Khalid."

He looks over at her in momentary terror. I have to hide a grin. "S-show you the c-city?"

"Yeah. I've never been to Beregost. What's it like?"

Imoen has a hand on his arm and is trying to drag him away. He looks back over his shoulder at me, and I catch the humor in his eyes. "Which way to the Juggler?" I ask.

"It's south of the pillar," he says, "Southeastern part of town. Just ask anyone, it's popular. I'm c-coming!" He stumbles as Imoen pulls at him. She's grinning and looks happier than I've seen in days.

"But don't you want to drop all the baggage off first?" I hear him ask as they turn a corner. Imoen says something like "Oh, goshdarnit, what's it matter?"

Of course, _she's_ not wearing a suit of chain mail. I look around. The only other soul on the street is an old man clipping weeds from between the cobblestones. Jaheira took Eliea, so I'm alone. It's a little spooky not having someone else around.

I make my way southeast through the streets. Somewhere across the rooftops a man plays a pipe of some sort in a sweet, lilting tune.

((A))

The Jovial Juggler lies on the southern edge of Beregost, facing a quarter mile of open meadow before the trees pop up again. There's a painted sign beside the door depicting a jester with his floppy tri-pointed hat, juggling three balls. It's sided with oak slats and two stories high, with white curtains in the front windows.

I turn the corner and see it, and am just about to step out and go toward it when I hear the jingle of harnesses and the clap-clap of hooves. A party of two dozen armored people trots around the corner, all on horses. I step back into the street I just left and watch.

The one in the lead has a staff stuck in his stirrup. A pennant flaps from the top—a closed steel gauntlet on a black, kite-shield shaped field, surrounded by purple flames. The door of the Juggler enters as they approach and another armored man steps out and begins speaking with them. They stop in the street and dismount as a group. Several of the men in the rear take the horses around back to the stables, while the rest make their way inside. In the faded light spilling through the clouds, they look gray and depressed.

I'm not the only one watching—a youngish woman with graying hair stands staring at the party, tapping a foot and swinging a reed basket from one arm. I cross to her. "Do you know who they are?

She favors me with a glance that takes in everything about me. "Aye, I do. Them's the Flaming Fist, brought down from Baldur's Gate. Don't you know of them?"

"No." Actually, I've heard a little, but she seems more knowledgeable. "Why are they here?"

She looks at me as if I'm halfway round the bend. "Where've you been for the last five bleedin months? Them's here so Amn don't get any ideas about coming north."

Amn is the nation that lies directly south of this region of the Sword Coast, across the Cloudpeaks. _And Nashkel is the northernmost outpost of Amn. _ "Why would Amn invade?" _Something to do with the iron, probably_.

"Ain't sure," she says. "There've been messengers tearing out of here for some weeks now, going north, and a few comin back, and news came out a few days back the Fist was comin down in case it was needed."

"Twelve people?"

Again the look. "I daresay more than that. They've probably filled up all the inns in town just to quarter. The Fist don't have its own buildings here."

"Something to do with the iron mines in Nashkel?" I've learned a little more of it from Khalid and Jaheira on the trip south, but nothing definitive. When we reached the Friendly Arm they'd been there for two days, resting after a much longer trip from the east—from Berdusk, Jaheira had said.

She snorts. "Aye, probably. Me husband can't stop talking about how his new plow broke the first day. The last one lasted seven years and he put new handles on it, but this last cracked into three pieces. He's not the only one, either. Old Bernam over on Temple Street had his new boots come apart on him—wasn't the glue, but the hobnails broke in half on the way up from Nashkel!"

I blink. "You're sure it's the iron?"

"I don't see what else it could be. It's been gettin worse for the past few months. I sure wish them Fists would do something more than just garrison the town—they need to get down to Nashkel and find out what the hell's wrong with the smelters, or the mine, or whatever." She waves her hand and wanders off down the street.

"Heya," Imoen calls from the far end of the street. I wave and walk down to meet her. Khalid trails along, looking a little worn around the edges. I smile.

"Have a fun tour?"

"Well," says Imoen, "Kind of."

Khalid looks apologetic. "It's been a long time since I've been here."

I nod toward the Inn. "A bunch of Flaming Fist troops just went in there."

Khalid frowns. "That's not a good sign."

_Tell me something I don't know. _"I think I've been missing something," I say. "What exactly is happening down in Nashkel, Khalid?"

He shrugs. "We've told you we don't exactly know."

"But the iron is crumbly."

He smiles. "That's putting it mildly. When we passed through Elturel on our way here, about a month back, we witnessed an interesting occurrence wherein the proprietor of a sword shop, waving one around to impress a customer, had the sword come apart in his hand. Yes, 'crumbly' describes it well."

"But why the mercenaries?"

He cocks an eye at me and his tone becomes something akin to those of my former tutors back in Candlekeep, or Gorion when he's being professorial. "You know about Amn and Baldur's Gate?"

"They've been at odds for years."

"That's putting it lightly. Amn is a nation that's been stuck in the same space of land for awhile. Certainly, they've now expanded across the Trackless Sea to Maztica, but it's not the same as invading a nearby place. And Baldur's Gate has grown in the past few decades into a very valuable prize."

"So Amn wants Baldur's Gate?"

He nods. "And the consensus in some places is that Amn is causing the iron crisis to weaken Baldur's Gate so they can invade."

"What would happen then?"

Khalid's lips tighten. "I think that answer is obvious. Baldur's Gate would not back down, not with the Flaming Fist. They'd go to war."

((T))

Author's Note: Frankly, I'm a little irritated at how many people check each chapter but don't bother to review. If anything, I'd like to hear more from the people who _don't_ review why you don't review than the people who do review and don't have anything useful to say (assuming there are any). If you read this, and then the chapter, please say something. It would be very nice. Yes, that is sarcasm.

I will not be posting tomorrow, or possibly the next day, but I will have a new chapter (or perhaps two) for the 24th, if anyone is around to read it and not eating some sort of holyday food. Then again, it may be that my own Christmas whatsits will prevent me from sitting down and tapping out much more for a week. If that is so then I will beat my head on my computer to catch up—I've too many ideas that have been bouncing around for literally _years_ (well. 1.5 at least) to give up this story as I did the previous two novelizations.

Oy! Review!

Harlequin: Whee! Another person who gets D&D rules. I don't know how many people who've played BG actually have a clue there was a whole system behind it…then again, they probably wouldn't have bought it if it wasn't, so I shouldn't be surprised.

I'll offer a peek that won't give anything away—I'm mixing 2nd and 3.5 Edition here, as far as I understand them. You may note Diana is going to have leather armor. It is absolutely stupid not to—in essence, by 3.5 rules she's a… Wait. That would be telling. Sorry, no can do. I can tell you, however, that her side of the Art is just a little wild. How surprising.

New characters? I don't know. I like it mostly the way it is, though that doesn't mean I can't change other things in a major way. If you've got the strategy guide I can tell you I'm taking bits and pieces from it (namely, the main character's first name) and I've got to remember to thank the writers of that at some point to.

Anyway, I'm rambling…thanks for the review. I really should cut down on these notes. Happy Christmas.

K. Stramin

December 21st

Late on a cold night


	5. Silent Stupidity

5

War.

The way Khalid says it strikes me. It's not the learned, patronizing tone of an instructing Seeker, bored to death with dealing with me and hoping to get back to his own studies soon. That kind of _war_ is over, done, finished and set down via iron pen into the books. It is history.

Khalid is not speaking of history.

"War?" I repeat.

Khalid nods. Now that his speech has reached its climax—or so it appears—his nervousness returns, and with it his stutter. "Well, that's the worst c-c-case situation. That's why we're g-going south. To see if we can deal with it in any m-manner."

I breathe out slowly, still stunned. "I think we should go then."

Khalid shakes his head. "N-not until your armor is f-finished. And we still need to find out more ab-b-bout this city. And see if anything has changed since we l-left the Friendly Arm." Looking pained, he shuts his mouth.

"Well then," I say, shaking off my lingering unease and follow Khalid as he crosses the street, pushes open the door to the Jovial Juggler, and goes inside.

It's much noisier than the Friendly Arm, and more crowded. The Inn had an entire floor of a keep to use as a taproom, but this taproom can't be more than thirty feet across. The tables are a mismatch, some round, some square, some longer than others, several jammed up in corners and out of the center to form an impromptu central ring where several people—a few in pairs, a few alone—are engaged in some kind of wild dance to the accompaniment of a wailing wind instrument and a hand drum.

Jaheira stands near the door, arms folded, scowling. "I will say it again. Cities are a disease, especially because of places like this."

One of the dancing couples caroms into a table, knocking it askew. Now that I get a better look, I see that the dancers are grinning and swaying and are very, very drunk. They bounce back out into the center of the room on the collective balls of their feet, doing something akin to a jig.

"We have rooms upstairs," says Jaheira, "Where it is hopefully more quiet." She gestures at the stairs at the rear of the taproom, not far from the bar. "Shall we _please_ go?"

Imoen giggles and Khalid raises a nervous, twitching eyebrow at the dancers as we make a slow path through the tables and up the creaking stairs to the second floor hallway, where it is much quieter. All of the doors are shut.

Jaheira goes to the second on the left, opens it ushers us inside. What with the single chair, dresser, and bed, with accompanying chamberpot, there isn't much room to sit. Imoen appropriates the narrow windowsill, Khalid the chair, and I sit on the bed. Jaheira doesn't sit. She shuts the door, blocking out the noise of the pipe, and rubs her temples.

"Very well," she says, ceasing to rub her temples and rubbing instead at her eyelids. "We have arrived. It shall be some time before we will leave, I have no doubt, even with what skill there is at making leather here. Khalid, have you mentioned our need for information?"

Khalid nods. "Good," says Jaheira, taking a more comfortable position against the dresser and leaning her spear against the wall. "We should be here long enough to gain a fair amount of information." She nods at Imoen and I. "Beregost is a fairly safe town and should be safer with the Flaming Fist here, but it would not be wise to venture out alone, or much after dusk. It is not safe in any city."

I detect a patronizing tone but have the intelligence not to comment. I have very little knowledge about the world, and Jaheira is possibly the best person to teach Imoen and I about these things. Certainly better her than a stranger.

"You should remain with Khalid or I at all times," she continues, and Imoen makes a noise. Jaheira looks at her.

"You had something to say?"

Imoen looks up, smiling brightly. "Me? Oh, no. Nothin at all."

Jaheira gives her a hard look. "I mean what I say."

Khalid clears his throat. "J-Jaheira, might I intrude?"

She turns her frown from Imoen to him and nods. Khalid blushes.

"W-well," he says, looking only at her. "It was to m-my impression that we are four, traveling as four."

Jaheira blinks. "I do not understand."

Khalid's chest rises and falls in a silent sigh. The red has faded from his cheeks. "Jaheira, Diana and Imoen are not children."

Jaheira blinks. Her frown fades. She looks at the rough plank floor for a moment. Then she looks back up at us. "I am sorry," she says. I can detect nothing in her gray-green eyes. "You are correct. I was the one who said it, yes. You are no longer a child, and sometimes I command more than I should."

I shrug. "Thanks."

Imoen shrugs. "Well, look," she says, with only a trace of a grin. "I haven't been here in awhile, and I really wanna see what's changed since I was here." She pauses, grin growing. "And those dancers down there…Di, you think that would be really difficult?"

I bite my lip. "I don't know, Imoen."

She smiles. "No hurt in trying."

Khalid clears his throat again. "Excuse me."

"Go ahead," I tell him. Jaheira is unstrapping her pack.

"While it is t-true, what we have just spoken of, it does not change several, uh, other aspects of…of here and of any other p-p-place we may travel in," he says. The tips of his ears have turned pink.

I almost smile at those ears. "Yes?"

Now his both his ears are pink. "W-well," he says, "F-for example, J-Jaheira and I are, are," he pauses. The flush has crept down to his cheeks. "Married," he says, finally. "But y-you and Imoen are, are," he pauses again. His whole face has turned bright red.

"Not," says Jaheira. Khalid looks at her. "And there are always those in cities such as this, and other cities, and yes outside of the cities as well, who would look upon you as no more than girls to be used."

Khalid nods gratefully at her, but his blush darkens.

"Neither of you are foolish," says Jaheira. "But I would remain cautious nevertheless."

Imoen giggles. "Fat chance of anything like that," she says.

"I did not mean with your permission," says Jaheira softly. "Most would not ask it."

Imoen's smile fades. I look at Jaheira, considering my next words. Sensing my gaze, she looks at me.

"You don't have to worry about that," I say, as softly as I can. "If any problems occur, that won't be one of them."

Jaheira looks at me for a long moment. "Very well," she says, and leaves it at that.

Booted feet clunk past in the corridor. A whole procession of people passes by the door, some talking. Men grunt. Women chuckle. Then they all go downstairs and are lost in the din.

"Now, as for this inn," says Jaheira. "I would not trust the door. There are no locks here, as you saw, which means anyone can step inside. So, whenever you leave take what is yours with you. I would recommend that one of us stays up, but that will not happen."

"What about the doors?" I ask.

"Block it with the chair. I think that will suffice. And it is fortunate that the Flaming Fist has arrived. They will not only garrison Beregost in case Amn attacks but they will be walking the streets with the town guards."

"A stroke of luck," says Imoen, but she doesn't sound happy.

Jaheira stands silent, thinking. "I believe the clerk said evenfest begins at sundown." Another pause. "Is there anything that I have forgotten?"

No one answers. She shoves off from the dresser and picks up her spear. "Very well. Khalid, will you come and we will find a place more suited to…gathering information?"

Khalid gets up with a jingle of his mail shirt and puts the chair back. He nods at Imoen, at me, then Jaheira and he go downstairs.

I look at Imoen. She's grinning. I shake my head.

"Oh, come on, Di, don't tell me you don't see it."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about Imoen, but I think I see it." I turn and dig into my pack for the crusts that are all that remains of Gorion's bread.

Imoen sits down beside me. "You've got to admit this is weird."

Poking aside Gorion's scroll case, I dig deeper. "I can't see how it could get any weirder."

"But fun, too."

I look up. "You mean you actually like getting blisters on your feet?"

She rolls her eyes. "No, Di, not _that_ fun. I didn't say it was all fun. But just watching them, especially Khalid…every time he mentions _anything_ even remotely sensitive, he looks like he's going to…" Imoen holds her breath and turns an awful shade of tomato.

"Good gods, Imoen!" I say, laughing.

She lets out her breath, laughing too. "So you _do_ see it!"

"What, that it's funny he's embarrassed?" I shrug, smiling.

She slaps me on the shoulder. "Di, you're too serious."

"So you've said." I pull out the bread crusts. They've turned up at the corners and dried. I nibble at one. "Want one?"

Imoen makes a face. "Town, Di. Town means real food."

I blink. "You're right. But not here."

"So we go somewhere else!"

I almost hit myself. Imoen grins at me as if she's read my mind. "Come on, Di. Let's go eat food."

And with her tugging at my wrist, we go back outside.

((A))

Despite her comments, Imoen doesn't want to stay in the Juggler, or engage in any of the wild dancing in the taproom. With me firmly latched to her, she goes out into the street and flags down the nearest passerby, a middle-aged man carrying a sack of charcoal.

"Where eat?" she says.

He looks at her. "Eh?"

"Where is there good food in this town?" Imoen says, a little louder.

He blinks. "Er. Well'm, I's be tinkin de uh," says the man, bewildered.

Imoen shrugs and pulls me off westward. We make our way east-west through the streets of Beregost, passing row after row of houses. When we first arrived I'd seen only the tall ones with peaked roofs, but it seems that between every other or ever two of those squats a smaller, square, one-story building.

We cross the broad expanse of the Coast Way which runs through the center of town, dividing it in half, and plunge headlong into the crowds of the western part.

"Keep a lookout for a food place," says Imoen, having finally released my wrist. I've kept hold of my pack with the other.

"What about Khalid and Jaheira?"

Imoen shrugs. "They can find us, or we'll get back and tell them. Di, it's the middle of the day. Were you gonna spend it all cooped up in that room?"

I blink. What _had_ I intended to do?

"There!" says Imoen, pointing. Ahead lies a massive two-story building facing east. Directly to the left of the stairs leading up to its double doors is a rectangular sign that depicts some kind of animal. It has a beak, so it's probably a bird. It also has two glowering eyes. "Imoen, what is that place?"

"A food place, Di," she says, as if I'm an idiot, and pulls me up the steps, shoves open the door, and we stumble inside.

((A))

It's another inn, but nothing like the Juggler. The taproom is long, rather low, and dark. There are only a few tables and quite a number of soft couches. It is absolutely silent.

Imoen stops for a second, looking confused, then brings back her smile, turns to me, and says, "Di, how about you get the food?"

I open my mouth to say something nasty, but can't think of anything. So I stand there staring at her with my mouth open. Imoen giggles. "Go sit down, Di."

I shake my head and go find a chair as Imoen goes over to the bar on the northern side of the room and starts up a conversation with the barkeep. A few minutes later she returns, just a little disgruntled.

"Problem?"

"Yeah," she says. "He won't give me the food."

"What?"

"He says someone has to serve it. Maybe I was wrong about this place."

A tall, dark-clothed man with absolutely no hair emerges from a darkened doorway to the left of the bar, bearing a gleaming tray in one hand. He strides across the room and with unexpected grace, sets down the tray, sets out wooden plates and mugs, and serves what looks like cheese-covered biscuits spotted with little green slivers. He fills the mugs from a glass decanter of dark red liquid. "Mam's," he says, slipping a napkin under the edge of each plate, and departs.

I grin at Imoen. "Expecting something different?"

She shrugs and picks up a biscuit. I follow suit. It is, after all, warm food after four nights on the road. _Delicious_. The slivers turn out to be pieces of cucumber, and when I sample the tankards, it at least tastes like sherry. I hope it didn't cost too much. Imoen has her own purse, but it's not that large.

"So," says Imoen, licking her fingers—there are no forks—"What do you think?"

I say nothing. I don't really want to talk about it, but Imoen's stubborn. The best I'll do is stave her off for one more question.

"How you doing, Di?"

I eat the last half of a biscuit, tasting cheese and warm bread. "Fine, Imoen."

"What do you think of all this?" Imoen waves a hand around, indicating the food, the inn, the old guy, Beregost, the trees, Jaheira, Khalid, the journey south—

"Fine, Imoen."

She looks at me over the rim of her tankard. "You'll be okay? I'm worried about you, Di."

I smile at my plate. "I suppose this is why you dragged me halfway across town to eat cheese-covered biscuits."

Imoen considers, almost pouting. "Actually," she says, "I wanted food. Being a shoulder is secondary."

"I'll be fine, Imoen. I'm dealing with it."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." I smile at her.

We finish the meal in silence. Imoen is embarrassed at questioning me. I can tell. I've known her for too long. She doesn't have to blush to show that to me. And me…well, I don't want to talk about it.

I finish the last of my wine and look up as Imoen rises. "Back to the Juggler?"

Imoen shifts ever so slightly from foot to foot. "Well…"

I smile. "See you in awhile, Imoen."

She grins at me, a flash of white amidst purple as she heads for the door.

((A))

I make my way back out onto the streets. A torrent of sound washes over me. Children shout, men and women gossip in the streets, alongside the streets, in the shadows of houses. Early afternoon sunlight bathes my face. A wagon rumbles and creaks down the next street. I stand, listening to the rustle of the leaves in the trees that stand to either side of the bird-signed inn.

A man's voice rises above the rest, strident and loud. "They should have come in yesterday!"

I open my eyes, not realizing they'd been shut. The voice came from the next street over, to the west. I go down it, past a row of wizened, leafless trees, between crones nearly as wizened and two men in blue clothing with clubs and shields, members of the town watch.

I turn the corner and scan the crowd to find the man, who's still shouting. "What do you mean, no commission? It's not my fault the damned thing didn't come in!"

I can't see him, but my eyes fix on a figure standing near his voice, at the base of the steps leading up into a good-sized two-story house. I'd recognize him anyway, but I only met him a few hours ago. He stands head and shoulders over most of the crowd, and his head is crowned with a great combed mop of brown hair and huge whiskers. He turns toward the voice and frowns as it speaks again.

"Take it up with your master, then. Or I will. How would you like that?"

I finally fix on the voice, a portly man in green wearing a large leather bag with a shoulder strap. He's standing almost on top of another, more muscular man, verily bawling into his face. Amazingly, the larger man backs up. Then Taerom the blacksmith pushes through the crowd and joins them, and the portly man stops bellowing.

There's a brief discussion and then the third man leaves, going east, leaving Taerom and the portly man staring after him. I make my way through the crowds, avoiding a huge man lugging a sack of meal. I reach the two just as Taerom is saying, "—can't keep doing this, Beber. It's got to end." Though he bellowed in his shop, out here he growls so soft I can barely hear him.

"Yeah," says his companion. "But t'rain't anyone around to do anything about it. Tempers is gettin a little bent, Taerom. I heard it in taverns and on the street mor'n I'd care to count today. Most think you've got summat to do wit'it."

Taerom snorts. The other man shrugs. "Summat needs done," he repeats. "Mebbe if you brought out yer staff and got a few friends, we might clear out whatever's goin wrong and beat back the bandits besides."

"My staff's in the corner where it belongs," says Taerom, still looking after the departed man. "Where it'll stay. Tisn't a bad idea, though. Iron is getting more precious than gold around here now. Soon it'll be worth it to find someone ter do it."

"I'd say it's better to do summat bout it sooner," says Beber, but shrugs. "Course, I wouldn't be goin out on those roads meself, even wit'you."

Taerom grunts. "Ye'll get yer commission, Beber. Tain't yer fault t'er takin them all out. We've got other tings to do. I'll be postin notices if Kelddath doesn't soon, and I'm sure ye've other commissions y'might wanter be dealin with."

Beber nods, morose, then turns and strides off north. Taerom frowns, a very intimidating sight, then catches sight of me, standing not ten feet off. His frown lightens. "I know yer from someplace."

"Your armory," I say, ready to bolt. The man is more than two heads higher than I. He steps forward, blotting out the sun. "I ordered some custom armor."

His gaze flicks downward, a calculating, cool look. My insides clench but I realize he's seen my scabbarded sword. "Mercenary, are ye?"

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Either ye are or ye aren't. If ye aren't I really ain't got time unless ye've a problem with yer armor."

"It's not ready yet," I say. "At least I think it's not. But I don't have a problem."

His frown has disappeared. He looks much friendlier without it. "Walk awhile," he says, turning north along the street. "If ye are in the business of selling yer sword, I've got an offer."

I follow him, letting him part the crowd like a plow. People seem to slide off to either side of him. "Alongside," he says, stepping back alongside me. "Can't very well hear me if all ye see is me back."

He has a curious accent as I'd noted before, from somewhere around Waterdeep. Or at least that's what Candlekeep's books and the Seekers have told me.

"There's a problem along the roads these days," he says. "Mayn't ye have noticed it?"

"Problem?"

"Aye, the blasted brigands. They rob travelers blind or kill them outright, and unlike all the other two-bit bands we've had roamin here in the past they're number enough or strong enough to take whole caravans. That man ye heard me with, Beber, he's a contact with a chief supplier from Waterdeep." He cocks an eye at me, his bushy eyebrow riding up higher on his forehead.

"Ordinarily, mam, I don't bring in crude from that far north. Costs quite a lot, ye know. But in the past weeks the iron what's been comin up from the mines a few days south is just so much slag. I couldn't tell it with the first few batches but now I can feel it every time I lay my hammer to it. Sometin's gone wrong down there, but that's not the issue. Maybe someone else can deal with that, but what I'd pay ye to do would be to clear out the nasties from the roads around here."

I blink. "The bandits?"

"Who else? Aye," he says, before I can answer—if I'd had an answer in mind—"There are a few other malcontents around here, but they don't pose a threat to caravans the way they travel, sconced with guards all about. These bandits're a different matter, and that's what I'm talking about. Are ye good with that sword?"

I shrug. "I really haven't been tested yet." _Stupid. Why tell _him_ that? Without this thing hanging by my side I'm just a girl walking the streets._

"Well, damn," says Taerom. "Maybe I should be dealing with someone more experienced."

"Actually, those I travel with are more experienced."

His moustache quivers. We've reached an intersection and he turns west, toward his smithy. "I trust then ye can speak for them?"

"No," I say. Definitely not. But… "I can listen to what you have to say and relay it back to them."

"Aye, ain't that the way." We pass by the massive glass and stone pillar proclaiming the town's name. "Right then, miss…" he frowns. "I suppose I should know yer name."

"Diana."

"Well, miss Diana, I'm not the only one ter offer it, but I may be the only one to do so polite. Ye're a stranger here, and ye'll be knowin it if ye haven't been told already. What's gone on with the iron and the bandits has everyone at hair's end. Beregost ain't a town that takes to mercenaries kindly, even the Fist. But the Fist is protection, while we might consider people like you just trouble."

That sounded threatening.

"It weren't meant to be mean, miss. Tis a simple fact. But we're all agreed someone needs to do somethin about the bandits. I'm not prepared to offer an official contract, but I can give ye me promise, solemn and true, to pay ye for every bandit ye bring in, dead or alive."

I swallow. "How would you bring them in dead?"

He shrugs. "Bodies're heavy, no doubt. Weapons, mayhap, or scalps, though that doesn't prove nothin concernin who they come from. But there've got to be the ones callin in the fights, keepin track o'the caravans. They've got to have leaders, and if ye or yer friends can do somethin about it, I'd pay ye well."

I frown. "How well?"

Taerom's teeth flash beneath his whiskers in a grin. "How abouts five hundred coins, in gold."

I swallow. I've never seen that much in one place before. "I'll talk with my friends."

"I've no doubt ye shall. But miss, ye may want to keep within the town and farms until yer armor's done. I'll have it finished the morn after next."

I blink, surprised. "That soon? I thought it took time to dry!"

Taerom smiles. "Ye paid fer the armor, not the knowin of makin it. I'll have it fer ye early day after tomorrow. Maybe ye'll be wantin bracers, or a helmet too."

I frown. "Maybe I should come and look over what you have."

He shrugs. "Come by me shop in half a tick o'the clock. I've business elsewhere, but if ye do decide to make fer those bandits, I'll mayhap have a discount fer ye. Thank ye, miss, fer listenin."

With that he turns south into the crowds, moving away like a great ship parting the sea. I turn away. I'm precisely at the intersection where Thunderhammer Smithy lies. Voices swirl around me. A dog tears past, following by a scampering boy.

Frowning, barely noticing the people I pass, I make my way back to the Jovial Juggler.

((A))

As I go south, the streets empty. As I near the Juggler they are entirely deserted. I do not notice, fixed as my attention is on the pavement before me. I barely notice pounding feet behind me.

"Hey!"

I spun around, almost drawing my sword. The man behind me skids to a halt, panting. "You know how to fight?"

He's as young as I, with short brown hair and rather dreamy blue eyes. This is all he gets out before he doubles over, gasping for breath.

"Sort of," I say, truthfully, then flinch. _Mask, why did I say that?_

He straightens up, holding his side. "Look, I've been looking everywhere for the watch. Silke says not to get them but someone else, but I can't find them, or the Fist. Look, Silke's in trouble, there's thugs coming to get her."

It's too fast, too confusing. "Who's what?"

He sighs, takes in a breath, and speaks. "Silke Rosena, my employer, she's a singer. She was going to sing at an inn but didn't show up, and the owner didn't like it so he sent thugs after her and they've caught up and I shouldn't have left her but we need help. They'll beat her up, maybe kill her. Will you help?" He runs out of breathe.

He looks so desperate, so confused, I cannot say no. And a singer, in danger? "Where is she?"

"Up a few blocks. She's hiding from them in a side street but they'll find her any minute."

So he and I, idiot that I am, take off back up the street.

By the time we reach the side street entrance I'm gasping too. The man runs inside and I follow, not thinking for a minute.

"Silke!" hisses the man.

"One minute," I say, grabbing him by the arm, then letting go very quickly. "Who are you?"

"What? Me? Oh, I'm Garrick. Silke!" he calls out.

A lithe dark-clad form comes out of a niche on one side of the alley. It's darker here than in the other street. The woman wears a dark hooded cloak and is so pale I can make out her features clearly. Stone walls lie to either side, with light at either end of the alleyway and a strip of sky above. "Garrick?" she calls. Her voice is throaty but pleasant.

"Silke!" He runs up to her. "You're safe!"

"Not for long, I saw them go past the other entrance not five minutes ago." When she speaks to him her voice is warm and gentle. She looks at me and her gaze is suddenly cold and clinical. "Who is this?"

"She's a sellsword, Silke. I brought her here just like you said."

Silke's entire demeanor changes. She gives me a smile that would fit a contented cat. "Greetings, mercenary. I am Silke. What did Garrick promise you?"

Garrick chokes. "I forgot, Silke. She just came along without asking."

"How about fifty gold for this service you're providing?"

"Service?" I'm still disconcerted by her smile and her cold warmth.

"Protecting me from these villains," she says, looking frightened. "I'm sure they'll be coming back any second and you mustn't let them hurt me."

"I won't let anyone hurt you," I say. "I promise that. Too much hurt has happened already."

Her face dissolves into a smile. Tears glisten in her eyes. "I can't thank you enough," she says. "Just keep me safe, please. Is this enough?" One hand disappears into her cloak and produces a leather bag that jingles. I shake my head.

"I won't need anything for this."

"Uh-oh," says Garrick. "Uh, Silke, they're here."

Three large, lanky men have entered the alley. It's wide enough for them to walk two abreast. The one at the front is clean-shaven and surprisingly handsome, but that doesn't mean much. He wears a dagger at his belt and swaggers, reminding me of Carbos.

Silke shrinks back. Her hood falls off in the process, exposing a gorgeous head of long blonde hair. "Don't let them hurt me!" she shrieks.

I step forward, fastening one hand around the hilt of my sword. I haven't drawn the weapon since leaving Candlekeep. I wonder if I'll remember how to use it. Garrick stands beside me, looking nervous and confused. "Garrick come back here," says Silke. "Don't get yourself hurt because of me!"

"But Silke, I've got to protect you!" he trots back to her.

The men stop ten feet off, eyeing me strangely. "One of them is a mage!" Silke cries. "Don't let him cast a spell!"

I charge forward, wondering if Jondalar ever taught me anything about three against one. Probably not. I should learn more, if I ever get out of here…how did I get here in the first place? But now isn't the time for action.

"What the hells?" cries one man. "Silke, what the hells is this?"

"Get away!" Silke shrieks. "I won't let you hurt me?"

As I near them, the men back up, eyes wide. My sword is still scabbarded. "Whoa," says the one in front, raising his hands in surrender. "Wait a minute there."

One in the back calls, "Silke, what's with your bodyguard? She's like a rabid dog!"

"Get away!" shrieks Silke. I glance back and see her batting the air as if trying to sweep the men away. Garrick, beside her, has drawn a short stabbing sword.

"Silke, what's wrong with you," says the man in front, advancing a pace. I feint and he backs off, still talking. "We couldn't find you out front, what are you doing in here? We've got what you wanted—"

"Kill them!" screams Silke. "Kill them before they kill me!"

I stop. Something is wrong here. The men have backed up even further. All have their hands up now. Silke has backed up as well. I stand between them, looking back and forth. Even Garrick looks confused.

"Wait," I say to the thug in front. "Who are you?"

"Feltis," he says, "Let your blade down, miss, we're not orcs." He sounds uncertain about that.

I frown. "You're not thugs hired to beat her up?"

His mouth drops open. One of the men in the back grunts. Feltis makes an odd choking noise. "…B-beat her up?" the other asks, dumbstruck.

Yes, something is _very_ wrong here. As I turn toward the other end of the alley Silke shoves Garrick forward. "Fine!" she shouts. "It was a stupid idea. You're all stupid, you especially, Garrick. Can't even get a stupid mercenary, you pick the smartest one on the street! Fine! I'll deal with you all."

With that she whips back her cloak. Her hands fly about before her. I can _see_ the strings of Art she's weaving in the air. "It's a spell!" I shout, and again without thinking—where _has_ my brain got off to, today?—I charge back the other way, straight at her.

She did not expect that. My sword gleams even in the dull light and as she catches sight of it she stumbles backward. She trips on a bucket in the alley and almost goes over backward. She catches herself with one hand but the unformed energy sparks and crackles away in the air before her. The hair along my arms stands up.

Then I reach her. She's drawn a small knife, not even a dagger, and thrusts it at me. I really don't want to hurt her, not after what happened to Carbos, not the way he died, so I swing wide, then bring my sword back around hilt-first, crushing it into the side of her head. She flies sideways and hits the wall, then falls in a crumpled heap to the ground and lies still. The shock of the blow runs through my arms.

I stand over her, wondering what in the nine hells just happened. Footsteps sound behind me. I whirl around. It's Garrick, a safe distance away, his sword sheathed.

"Wow," he says. He's actually grinning. "Did you mean to do that?"

I close my eyes. For a minute I want to strangle him, or to beat him over the head. Then more footsteps. The three men have closed in behind him.

"Well," says Feltis, looking past me. "I knew she was a nag, but never a murderer. Thank you, miss. I think you just saved all our lives. One spell in here and we'd all be crisp."

I shrug. "What now?"

He frowns. "Well, let's see." He crouches over her and pulls a thick pouch from her belt. He weighs it, then pulls a similar pouch from his own leather bag. "Maybe not even, gents, but I think we can count this as stress money." He tosses his pouch atop her unconscious form, then turns to leave.

"You're just going to leave her there?" I can't believe it.

He looks back. "No. I'll call in the Fist and tell them she tried to kill us. I'm assuming you don't want to be here?"

"What?"

"I can say it was just him—" he jerks a finger at Garrick "—her, and us," he says. "No questions for you. I'm assuming she just hired you for this."

"You assume right. You'll do that?"

"Aye. I've been in tight spots enough times. No harm in doing something like that. Besides, you saved all our skins."

I look around. "What do I do?"

He frowns. "You've got a place to stay, right?"

I nod. "Well," he says, "I think you'd best be getting back there. Sun's going down pretty fast. I hope the Fist gets here before the filches, else she'll be talking in naught but _her_ skin." He frowns. "Then again."

I bend down and feel for the lifebeat in her neck. It's strong. I sigh. "Okay."

With that I turn and leave the alley, walking in silent stupidity back to the Jovial Juggler.

((T))

Author's Note:

You'll note I've graded thisI will be short. As I expected, it took longer to get back into the swing after Christmas. In addition, I discovered that I'd missed out on Beregost. It's not an unimportant stopover, and I'd run right over the top of it in the first concepts of this storyline. Obviously, Diana would not.

Personally I found Beregost irritating and boring. It's a bloody town. There are more important things to deal with, but at the same time I will not leave behind important details.

Again, I've changed several aspects of this section of the game. I did not like how Silke could get cut down in the middle of a busy street and no one cared. Perhaps I've been in this time too long. And Garrick…well, frankly, I dislike CN bards.

I can say this concludes Chapter 2 in Beregost. I think it's boring, and I will enjoy the next chapter a great deal more.

Reviews!

Enough with the individual paragraphs. They take too much space.

**Harlequin**, I cannot guarantee not putting too much Realmslore into the story, but I'll deal with that when the time comes. I write for me, after all, and I like Realmslore. **CrazeeFfan**, welcome to the story. Thanks for noticing the armor. I decided at the beginning to try something more than just a retelling of the game from the main character's perspective. That would be (you can guess it) boring. But I wouldn't take my own descriptions too literally. They're taken from 20,000 pages of FR fiction mostly written by people who haven't touched a sword in their life. If you want to know actual stuff, check some of the forums here or (haha) find some books on the subject. But then, they don't answer questions. **Elise 87**…well, ask a question, get an answer. After all, I'm the one who said I hate pointless reviews. Thank you for reminding me. And welcome to the story as well.

Hopefully I'll have the next chapter out day after tomorrow. Adieu and thank you, all.

K. Stramin

December 29th 2007


	6. Whistle in the Air

6

Darkness has settled over Beregost, taking with it all the warmth of the sun and leaving cold darkness. Never has night seemed so empty. I walk along empty streets illuminated by lampposts at each corner. The center stretch of each block is filled with shadows that seem to shift as I pass by.

As I near the Jovial Juggler I begin to hear things; the clatter of boots on cobbles; the squeal and slam as the front doors close and cut off the babble of many voices, many lifted in laughter. The noise seems faint and distant.

How could I have been so stupid? Rushing off like that, heedless of anything other than that a fellow person was in danger…if Garrick had been a thug, he could have clubbed me over the head when I entered the alley. Or stabbed me…I had suspected duplicity only when it became painfully obvious to everyone else, even Garrick, who doesn't seem that bright.

It was a mistake that could have cost me my life, and I cannot explain my rationale for doing it, other than that Garrick claimed Silke was in danger. From thugs, no less. It is incomprehensible.

But it is not. I clamp my mouth shut, as if it will suddenly burst open and pour out everything, though my mouth is not what speaks. _You know why you did it. And you would do it again._

I stop in the street, staring at nothing, arms slack at my sides. This time, I was lucky. What about the next? Of course I will, again. No need to ask why…no desire at all.

I don't like it. I clench my hands into fists tight enough to hurt and start along the street again, ten feet, and turn the corner into the light of bright torches and lanterns. At least a dozen people are clustered around the entrance, slumped on the wooden fence that faces the door, leaning against horses, dismounting. Several turn to look at me. They're townfolk, dressed in simple clothes, men and women. They turn away and go up the steps, the woman lifting her skirt clear of the steps. A blast of noise assaults me as they swing open the door, and I follow them inside.

What seemed hectic earlier in the day has become sheer chaos. Some of the furniture has been removed to expand the floorspace and at least a dozen couples cavort there. I stop just inside and look around with eyes wide. Off to one side a long table has been set up and another dozen people are seated around it arranging forks and knives and staring at a huge roast boar sitting on a silver platter at the center of the table. The sweet scent of roasted pork pervades the room, almost blotting out the fainter odor of unwashed bodies.

Even if I was hungry, this wouldn't be the place. It's so noisy I can barely think. I cross the taproom, keeping to the edges of the floor and dodging a staggering man and woman, and make my way up the stairs to the—hopefully—quieter second floor.

It is. Probably the staff doesn't appreciate the locals disturbing their customers. The corridor is deserted. I step off the stairs and pause, recalling that I don't know which rooms Jaheira got for us. Very humorous it would be if I burst in on Khalid…

Actually, it _would_ be. He'd turn three shades darker than crimson and probably never recover. But I recall Jaheira's room, and knock. There is no answer. I frown and study the door, give the latch a push. It swings open, revealing an empty room. Khalid and Jaheira are still out.

Well, I hope she won't mind me being here for awhile, it's better than the alternative. I cross to the desk, pull out the chair, and sink into it. I feel as if I'm carrying an anvil on my shoulders. I unstrap my pack and slough it off onto the floor, and some of the weight disappears. Sighing, I unbuckle the massive belt that supports my scabbarded sword and dagger, and remove the sword harness. My left hip aches. I leave the dagger on.

A chorus of happy shouts drifts up from the floor below. My stomach rumbles. I've had nothing since mornfest except a few cheese biscuits and wine. I shrug and tense muscles stretch and pop. Leaving my sword and pack on the floor I walk over to the bed and stare down at it.

I'm not tired enough, and that boar sounds better every second. I return to the desk and pick up sword and pack. I leave the room as empty as before.

((A))

I sink into a chair at a table down in the taproom, reflecting that at least the music is good. They've switched to a lilting melody of flute and harp, and the dancers aren't bouncing around so much. Over at the large table they've cut into the boar and passed out huge slices on wooden plates. Leaving my stuff in the chair I cross and grab a plate. Only when I've returned to the table do I realize it might not be free.

I look back over my shoulder. No one has noticed. Too tired to consider it, I sit down and begin eating. They've flavored the boar with sweet red wild berries, much as Winthrop did occasionally with his fowl.

A dark-skinned serving wench offers me a pitcher and I fill a tankard. The brew is dark with a thick head, and seems to fill my mouth with hot smoke. I lean back in my chair, feeling it run down my throat like boiling oil.

The chair across from me scrapes out and a man sits down. He's tall and broad, and he smells. He's brought a tankard of his own. The shadow of a dark beard obscures the line of his jaw. His eyes linger on my face, then shift to my ears.

I look across, startled. If anyone sat down, I'd expect it to be someone I knew. "Yes?" I put a hint of irritation in it.

"Jes lookin," he says. He has large, dull blue eyes. His gaze has dropped to my mouth.

"Are you looking for someone?" I ask, a little more irritated.

He shrugs. "Dunno. Ye look nice enough."

"I'm also eating. And I have no desire to speak with you."

He frowns. "I didnunderstand that. I donlike that."

"That's your problem." I look back down at my stout, hoping he'll get the message and leave. He does not.

"Whassamatter? You some sort of lady or something?"

"Sir," I say, looking back up. "Please leave."

He smirks. "I don want to."

Ice seems to have congealed in my veins. This is a loutish, brutish man sitting here, very nearly—yes, his gaze has dropped now to my chest. I can feel my teeth grind together. Very carefully, afraid I might shout, I open my mouth.

"Leave. Now."

He looks at me, up from my breasts and into my eyes. His leer fades. Without a word, he gets up and leaves, taking his mug.

The ice withdraws its tendrils from my arms and I can move again. Something hard has come up into my throat. I swallow it back down and it hurts. My vision blurs. I blink it away and settle back down to my pork.

"Well," says a voice nearby. "Hello, miss—"

I snap around, bringing my tankard with me. The heavy pewter vessel smashes into the side of the speaker's head, dropping him to the ground without another word. The shock bruises my knuckles. I stare down at him, mouth open.

He's one of the townsfolk, approaching middle age, with graying hair. He dropped onto his face. I can see a dark bruise blossoming on the side of his head.

"Holy hell," says one of his companions.

I look up, only then realizing the man had friends. They all look to be farmers, in from their homes for a few hours of fun at the beginning of winter.

"Diana?"

Jaheira slips through the crowd from the door and stops. Her gaze drops to the man. She glares at him. "What did he do?"

"Nothing," says one of the other men. "She just come up out of the chair and hit him up upside the head. He didn't do nothing."

Jaheira kneels beside him. I catch faint whispered words and she touches the darkening bruise. Her hand seems to glow softly. Faintly I can see the glow of a spell around her, then it winks out.

The man groans and pushes up from the floor, holding his head. "Whaththell," he says, trying to get to his feet. Jaheira helps him. "What happened?"

"An accident," says Jaheira, "A tankard. You should be alright."

He looks down at her from a significantly higher height. "Who are you?"

"Reben," says one of his friends, reaching out and taking him by the arm. "Come on."

Still looking confused, Reben stumbles off. His friends linger a moment, looking just as baffled, then they leave too.

I look down at the tankard still clutched in my hand. My fingers have turned white around it.

"Diana?" Jaheira asks. I look over at her. She's taken a seat. I sigh and sit as well. I feel as I might if struck by lightning—all the strength has run out of me, spent in that one blow. In that second I hadn't wanted to hit him. I'd wanted to _kill_ him. I'd wanted to smash the tankard into the man's skull even harder, splinter bone and bury it so he fell and never got up. But…wrong man.

Jaheira is looking at me. Carefully, I set the tankard down on the table and let go. Stout has splashed the floor and table, and my clothing from my tankard, which is empty.

"What was that about?" Jaheira's eyes are calm and measuring.

I shrug. "It doesn't matter. Stupidity."

"Violent stupidity, then. Is something wrong?"

I sigh and close my eyes. "No more than it ever is, Jaheira." Now I ache all over. I open my eyes. "Have you and Khalid found anything?"

She shrugs and signals a wench to bring her stout as well. She leans back to let the woman set the tankard down. "There is a great deal of gossip in the streets. How much of it is true I cannot be certain. But the iron coming from the mines is no longer pure, that is certain."

"Where's Khalid?"

"He is checking on Eliea. Imoen?"

"Probably off around town still. She likes the nighttime."

Jaheira almost smiles. "I think I understand that."

I don't want to talk, but things need be said. "I talked with Taerom again. He'll have the armor ready day after tomorrow."

"That soon?"

I shrug. "So he said."

"That should work well. We must not linger."

I'm tempted to say nothing of it, but Silke and Garrick might become a problem later, gods forbid. "There was one other thing," I say. "I had an…encounter."

From start to finish, I lay out what occurred. Jaheira's expression does not change. She remains staring at the table just before her through the whole tale, ignoring her tankard. When I am finished, she looks up.

"You told me this, why?"

I shrug. "Forewarning."

"Thank you, then."

"It's just I'd hate for anything to happen because of my stupidity."

Now it's Jaheira's turn to shrug, but she says nothing. I finally get up the energy to finish my pork, which is now cold.

"I there is something wrong inside you."

I look up quickly. Jaheira is still staring at the table, but she speaks again. "Something that has changed and not yet settled back where it belongs."

My mouth goes dry. "What do you mean?"

She sighs and leans back, lifting the front legs of the chair off the floor. "There must be a balance in all things. That which is not balanced will destroy itself. So it is with nature, and with humans, and even with cities such as this. There must be an order to things. There are thieves, for example, and there is a watch to make certain they do not grow too strong. But there are also those who must make certain the watch does not grow too powerful as well."

I hesitate. "So?"

She sighs, brushing back curling hair the color of chestnuts, briefly exposing the pointed nub of an ear. "If there is no balance, one side is stronger than the other and will destroy the other side. In the end, if this happens, balance will be maintained because the strongest side will split, eventually. But there is a great deal of chaos if one part overpowers another. In that chaos lies death, and fear, and hatred, and the beginning of new things which are like and unlike the old."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"It is that way with all things. If something is not balanced, it will grow so far to one side it will either destroy itself, or affect the balances of other things as well. Balance must be maintained."

"Are you talking about me?" I'm fairly certain she is, but I'm not sure how this all relates. "That I'm unbalanced?"

She looks down into her tankard. "When there is balance, there are no sudden changes." She pauses. "There are no flying tankards."

I feel a flush creeping up my cheeks, but say nothing. What is there to say?

The door bangs open, admitting a fresh dozen faces, while half a dozen leave. This happens in a flurry of motion and cold air, and Khalid stumbles out of the mess. Jaheira closes her mouth and drinks her stout.

((A))

Imoen does not return in the time it takes for Khalid to devour his own section of the boar, which, it turns out, actually is free. Most nights at the Juggler are like this, I discover. We talk little, and make our ways upstairs.

I finally find out which room is not Khalid's or Jaheira's, and scribble a note to Imoen and tack it to her room's door to tell her, then I go to my own room, slough off pack and sword, dagger and belt, and boots, and fall into bed.

I fall asleep almost immediately, but do not sleep well. My dreams are filled with a choking, colorless fog through which I can see events happening but am unable to prevent them. I watch again as Gorion's eyes widen and he looks out at the darkness as those four monstrous figures emerge. Fire flares between the pale woman's fingers, lighting glints in her eyes as her spell streaks toward me. One of the towering ogres lumbers forward, raising its man-high club, preparing to bring it down. My skin tingles as Gorion's lightning flashes out, taking the creature down in a single stroke that shakes the ground, and then the dark man looms up in his armor, sword dark as night, almost an opposite of Gorion's robes that glitter with the moonlight.

I—

I wake with a start and a pounding headache. My skin is cold and clammy. The room is still and silent. There is no sound from the floor below or the rooms to either side.

I sit up on the edge of the bed. My skin seems to jerk away as my feet touch the cold boards of the floor. They creak. I rest my head in my arms and stare into the darkness. There are no images here.

I wipe a hand across my forehead and lie back against the sheets, letting cold air rush in at me. I have no desire to sleep. Perhaps I'll get enough rest simply by lying here.

((A))

"You sleep okay, Di?"

I smile over at Imoen. It causes an almost physical pain. "Yeah."

The day passes as in a dream, as I spend most of it trying to catch up on the sleep I didn't manage last night. Khalid also comments on the pouches under my eyes during mornfest. Jaheira, in a rare spot of humor, chastises him for commenting about a maid's looks, and he goes red yet again. I'm too tired to find much amusement in it.

Imoen leaves after mornfest and Khalid and Jaheira depart soon after, to look into "Matters" as Jaheira puts it.

I can't sleep during the day, and as night approaches I find myself dreading the coming dark. The dreams are the same every night, about the same thing every night, so why don't they fade? They seemed to be fading after we left the Friendly Arm, and they really haven't grown that much worse…can it be that _I'm_ getting worse at dealing with them?

Gorion is dead. I know that. I saw him die, and it seems every night I see it happen again, but every night I awaken. Now, though, I don't always wake up when he dies. Now…

I come up gasping. Warm sunlight has flooded the room. It's hot under the blankets and I throw them off. The sole image left in my mind of the latest dream seems stamped against the far wall; a pair of eyes, glowing with a yellow, internal heat.

The armored man.

I fall back against the pillows, then with a muffled curse get up and go downstairs. I eat noonfest hunched over a table and drink rather too much ale in the hopes it might drive the images away. By the time Khalid and Jaheira return, I'm fast asleep. "Peaceful looking" as Jaheira puts it, but they aren't there a half an hour later when I wake up.

Night falls.

((A))

I finally fall asleep around midnight. I probably dream, but I can't remember what it's about, and I don't wake up until the sun is peeking over the treetops far to the east and Jaheira is knocking on the door. After a day in bed I ache and I use the washbasin's water liberally to rid myself of most odors.

Irritated but pleased about my sleep, I dress in gray and a crimson shirt, gird myself and go downstairs. Imoen waits there, today having exchanged the purple suit for one in charcoal gray, and a hooded cloak instead of her typical body-hugging suits. Her hood is down and she's picking at honeyed porridge and biscuits at one of the long tables. She already wears pack and sword.

"Lady Frost's outside," she says. I detect just a hint of grumpiness.

"Rough night?" I ask.

She shrugs. "You, Di?"

"Good enough."

((A))

We meet Khalid and Jaheira outside. Jaheira holds Eliea's reins. Today the mule looks almost cheerful after spending two days in a warm stable with plenty of food.

"It is nearly time to go," Jaheira says. "We must cover a significant distance today. Let us go quickly to see if the smithy is open."

It is. As I approach the door opens and Taerom Fuiruim steps out into a wide blade of lamplight that spills from inside. Even this early I can hear the ring of hammers on anvils. It's strangely comforting.

"Come in, come in," rumbles the smith. "Davil ain't here, but he got them done late last night wit a little help. They're on the counter here."

There they lie: two gleaming suits of leather armor, folded with their hardened breastplates sitting atop, configured—good gods _finally_—for our female figures. I reach out and brush my hand down the surface. It's like touching oiled steel, but just slightly softer.

"The torso's is hardened," says Fuiruim. "Davil's the one who knows the most about them but I've a fair bit to say as well. Ye'll want to keep them oiled enough so they don't dry out and crack, but I expect miss Jaheira can tell ye all about that." He nods to her and Khalid as they come in behind us.

Taerom would have spent fifteen minutes discussing the exact properties of the armor but Jaheira cuts him off. "Fuiruim," she says, in a voice truly fit for a Lady Frost, "We are in a hurry."

"Well, don't mind me," he says, nettled. "In any case, ye've got the basics and I'm sure ye'll take to them. If ye've any problems with them or repairs need made, make sure ye see me or Davil, if'n yer around."

I nod and Imoen and I gather them up. I note with some amusement that Imoen's is night-black, while mine is dark brown. "What sort of skin is that?"

"I said black. He didn't tell me. I suppose it's cowhide."

Jaheira fairly dances with impatience. Taerom shows us to the changing rooms and we emerge a few minutes later. The leather is hard and formed from just below the belly button to my collarbones and unlike Jaheira's extends down the arms in a combination of soft leather shirt with hardened leather plates sewn to it along my upper and lower arms. Because of the exacting measurements Davil took the day before yesterday—blushing almost as much as Khalid—every part of the suit fits perfectly.

"Note ye," says Taerom. "It does not provide ye much along the joints, so ye'll have to be careful."

It's also hardened along the fronts of my calves and thighs, but is soft everywhere else. It doesn't extend down far enough to dig into my stomach when I bend and allows me nearly as much movement as I'd have without it.

"Now we paid you for these when you took the measurements, right?" says Imoen, twisting and smiling down at her own suit. "No extra?"

Taerom grunts, pauses, and says, "Ye've been considering helmets?"

Imoen blinks at me. "Helmets, Di?"

I consider. "What's the advantage?"

Taerom opens his mouth but Jaheira speaks for him. "In short, that you do not get your head broken."

Taerom frowns at her, then when she turns away grins at me. "Yeah," he says. "On ter other hand, ye can't see much with just two holes fer yer eyes. Helmets are more for those in full armor and frank, ye're not." He casts an appreciative eye down my leather clad form and shrugs. "Hope says ye don't need one. Ye don't look like a heavy fighter to me."

I nod and try to relax. That single look tensed up every muscle in my body.

That decided, Jaheira demands that we leave. "Er," growls Taerom. "One more ting, mayhap." He reaches over the other side of the counter and pulls out two pairs of gauntlet-style gloves. "If ye swing those swords much ye'll want these." He tosses a pair to Imoen, then one to me.

Like most of the armor they are soft cowhide, but along the backs he's sewn a delicate arrangement of sliding plates. I pull them on and find I can bend my hand back still. "Are these extra?"

Taerom considers. "Fer now…hells, they're part of the armor." He lifts a section of the counter and steps across into the forge, where three burly men are already toiling in the lamplight. He looks over us.

"Don't get killed," he says, and turns toward his forge. I look at Imoen. She grins.

((A))

Directly south of Beregost the land turns into woods again, thin compared to those along the Way of the Lion or further north, but substantial. They've been cut back from the road recently, and Jaheira spits at this.

"It's a road," I say, stifling a yawn. "They've got to keep it clean."

"By destroying the growth of nature," she says. "Of course. As if it makes any difference." Which it does, she just doesn't want to admit it.

As we enter the trees and the sounds of the city begin to die away, Jaheira looks over both of us. "I should have said this before we left the Friendly Arm, but it slipped my mind. Khalid may be better at explaining this, but he is watching the road. From this point on that is how it must be. From what we have gathered, the bandits do not simply stand up and wait to be shot."

"Wouldn't it be easy if they w-were," says Khalid, scanning the trees to either side and the road ahead.

"They always strike from ambush, and the few we have heard who escaped did so while the bandits were raiding or killing the rest of the travelers. This may sound simple but it means that if they strike they will do so at range, with arrows. It is quite possible one of us will be struck, most likely one of you. You wear the least armor."

I look over at Imoen. "So?" It comes out easily enough.

"If that occurs then Khalid and the one who is uninjured must hold them off long enough for me to heal you. I am versed in the ways that nature gives and can mend torn flesh, if given time. There are also less divine methods of regeneration, namely in the forms of imbued potions. You know of them?"

Imoen coughs. I look over. "Imoen?"

She swings her pack off of her shoulder and digs briefly as we walk, then pulls out three corked glass vials filled with what looks like water. "These, I think. At least that's how they're labeled."

Jaheira gestures and Imoen hands them over. A moment later Jaheira hands them back. "I know of that solution. It is not much more than enspelled, purified water that carries the energy within it. To have any effect at all you must drink all of it."

That's nice to know. I wonder why that is. "Okay," says Imoen, passing two of the vials over to me. I tuck them into the outside pockets of my pack. Taerom's gauntlet-gloves provide phenomenal protection against the chill of winter coming, but don't let me feel much other than smooth leather. I keep twisting in my new armor, feeling it slide against me. There's none of the jerkiness I felt with my first suit I got from Winthrop years ago. The only part of me that is exposed to the wind is my face, and it isn't even that cold outside.

"They will help, however," says Jaheira. "But that is only three doses. We must use them well." She glances back. "To put it plain, try not to get hit, and be alert at all times."

Easier said than done.

((A))

The woods south of Beregost form a thin barrier between the town and the regions south. The broad, cobble Coast Way wends southward through them, sometimes twisting back and forth to avoid particularly large specimens that must have been only a smidgen shorter when the road was built.

We go two by two, with Jaheira and Khalid leading and Imoen and I following, which means that we get to deal with Eliea most of the time. It's not that bad; it's a docile enough animal if it gets scratched behind the ears enough, and gets enough food. It knows its food is in the saddlebags on its back, and I get the distinct impression it doesn't much like having to let us feed it. If it could, it would reach back and tear the things open itself.

The nights grow only a little colder as we go. It's still early in Uktar and the big snows don't come even further north until mid Nightal. The blankets we have brought and those that rest atop Eliea's broad back are quite sufficient. The first night we actually build a fire and for the few hours before we bank it it's glorious to sit with my gauntlets off, on the blankets next to the fire and warm my hands.

We pass out of the woods at midday on the second day, the seventeenth, and emerge into a rough, rocky country split by numerous deep ravines. The road wends a twisting way through it and though there are no more trees to conceal foes, Jaheira remains cautious. Khalid travels with his bow strung and his shield hanging from two straps on his left side so he can grab it if necessary.

The second night we sleep in a niche that faces south on the southern side of an upthrust of rock that abuts one of the ravines. The road winds down from the south at a steep angle, necessitating anyone coming from that direction to pick her way down the slope. This night, we do not light a fire. Jaheira insists on staying up and has Khalid take the second half of the watch, and so the next morning they're both a little short on sleep. Jaheira is snappish enough to switch our positions, so she ends up holding Eliea's lead while I scan the roadside. The trees have retreated further to the east.

Around noon the third day we come upon a brook that parallels the road. I catch glimpses of tiny silver fish in its currents. A little after noon the sky clouds over, turning the bright white of the streambed into dull gray and turning the fish to pale ghosts.

"Imoen," says Jaheira, as the clouds begin to scud away to the east. "Where did you find those potions?"

Imoen makes an embarrassed sound. I know she's grinning but don't take my eyes off the road. "I…had them," she says. I can hear the pride in her voice.

"But those are not inexpensive items," says Jaheira. "Where did you find the gold to purchase them?"

Imoen coughs. "I found it," she says. I can't help but grin. Rosin on the shine, indeed.

Jaheira falls silent for awhile. "Very well," she says at last. "I can see you don't intend to answer."

"Well," says Imoen. "I find things. Good things, sometimes."

Silence. "An interesting remark," says Jaheira. "Does it have some special meaning?"

I smile—then catch sight of movement to my left, on Khalid's side. I turn toward it in time to see a man in leather rise from behind a rock, a bow in his hands and an arrow nocked.

Khalid grunts and snatches for his shield. "Down! Archer!" I hear him shout a second later. A sharp _thwack_ pierces the air as the bowstring snaps forward. I catch a flicker of motion on _my_ side, behind another rock just ahead of us. Another man has risen. In a blur of color a willow shaft flashes past me, close enough to riffle my hair. It crosses over my left shoulder and heads out into the broken land behind us. Khalid's sword scrapes free of its scabbard as the man to my right lets loose his own arrow. His bow _thwacks_ in the cold air. I can see his arms tremble as the shaft flies out and the bow snaps back to shape.

Everything I see seems enlarged, too bright, too colorful. It's exactly as it was with Carbos. Then the arrow passes a good two feet to my left. I fumble for my sword. Khalid is utterly silent but a good twenty feet away already, legs pumping as he closes with the first bowman. The man drops his bow and leaps backward, drawing a shortish sword. His face is dark with a growing beard.

How can I see all of this and yet not be able to move fast? It's as if my limbs are encased in ice. My fingers are so cold I can't tell if I have my sword. I yank and it comes free with a rasp of metal, cold and solid in the air that somehow seems dim and hazy now.

"Diana! The other!" shouts Jaheira from behind, as the bowman lets loose a third arrow. I whirl back toward him as it slices the air. Like the others it passes to my left and out of the corner of my eye I see Imoen jerk backward as if struck by a solid punch.

My blood congeals in my veins. Not only are my fingers ice but my mind seems to have fogged out now too, not just the air. I jerk to a halt and spin back the other way as Imoen lurches backward, a shocked look on her face. I see the arrow, sticking out of her armor just to the left of her midriff, pierced straight through the leather. She looks at me. I think I see some kind of expression—confusion? Fear—then she falls backward onto the ground. Her bow drops beside her.

I think I scream. Jaheira tosses aside her spear and drops to Imoen's side, shouting at me, but I can't hear it. Later I find out she'd just repeated what she said before, but it doesn't matter. I turn back the other way, sword in hand. I can feel it now, like a great steel rod clenched in my fist, hard and solid as the ground underfoot.

I run at the man. He's stood up and is aiming another arrow. He's aiming for me, I note, without really caring. I'm coming too fast, though. He lets loose before he's on target and the arrow buzzes like a wasp over my head. He drops his bow and grabs for his sword. He gets it out as I reach him. I slash downward at him, the most basic attack existent, a great hacking blow. He ducks back and I almost lose my balance. I put too much force into that blow and almost fall on my face. As I stagger he comes forward poised to stab.

I jerk back up, faster than he thought, and run my sword forward. He leaps to the side and my blade scrapes along his leather armor. Immediately I bring the sword back for another slash and he leaps at me.

I leap to the side and he goes past me on the right side, just like Carbos. My sword is already going back that way, gaining energy for a slash. I turn with it, centering again as he turns, shocked I think that I'm not dead yet. When he first shot he had laughter in his eyes. Now they're gray like the sky, and there is no smile on his face.

I leap forward. He tries to block, the first time our blades have touched, and he underestimates me again. My weight and the weight of the sword blow past his countering slash and score. Abruptly I'm almost atop him, most of my blade buried in his left side, straight through his armor, exactly how he shot Imoen.

His mouth opens in shock and pain. I step back, pulling my sword with me. It comes out of him with the same liquid sound as the one that went into Carbos, a sound I will not forget as long as I live. He stands there as blood soaks his undershirt and stains his pants. He just looks…confused.

He tries to say something and falls to his knees. His sword falls from his hand, and he drops face-first to the rough ground.

Jaheira shouts. I look back, bringing my sword up. Three more men and a women, all in the same leather, have come out onto the road just north of where Jaheira kneels over Imoen. They were hidden among the rocks and now they run forward. Jaheira snatches up her spear and stands next to Imoen. I run back toward them and get there first.

There is no time for conversation; they're almost on top of us already. The woman comes at Jaheira while one of the men circles around to her right. I can't see where Khalid has gone but all my attention is ahead, northward, at the man rushing at me with a sword. His companion hangs back, fitting an arrow to his own bow.

He does not use Jondalar's tactics. Right now I can't remember them either, it's all too fast. He jerks to a stop, leveling a slash at my waist with a huge sword that will hit either Jaheira or I, we're standing too close. Jaheira lunges forward, catching the woman and putting a foot of the spear through her. I step forward into the swing, bringing my sword up flat-first. The edge of his meets the flat of mine and a tremendous shock rolls down my arm, jolting me. Without pause the man frees his left hand from the hilt and punches me in the face.

My head snaps back and the world spins. I stumble back a pace, waving my sword to keep him away. Jaheira shouts and the woman screams. The world comes back into focus. The man advances, ready to stab me. He looms huge in front of me, too big to fight. I don't think. I thrust out a hand toward him and scream the syllables of the only spell I know, the only one that might make any difference, the one that might keep me alive. It brings into being a single missile of force that might stun him or—with luck—incapacitate him so I can cut his thrice-damned head off.

Instead of the clean thrust of the spell, something twists and seems to rip inside of me. A wave of power rolls through me and emerges from my hand. A jet of red-white fire erupts from the palm of my hand, so hot the air wavers around it. It stabs full on into his face.

He drops to the ground, what's left of his head charred black and smoking. The spell runs out of me like a brook, leaving me empty and spent. I stare down, aghast. His body doesn't even twitch. Then I look up and see his companion a few feet off, an arrow nocked and meant for Jaheira, who has discarded her spear in the woman's body and launched a berserk attack at the fourth man. I charge at him.

He shifts his aim to me. I can see his fingers loosen on the string. I'm still too far away. Then a silver flash arcs directly to my right as Khalid comes in like a mountain from the side. I shy away from the tip of Khalid's blade as it passes within inches of my own throat and shears through the man's neck. In avoiding his blade I lose my footing and drop on my back, sliding into the headless body's legs as it drops to the ground. Rich red blood sprays everywhere, including on me. My gauntlets are suddenly slick. I shove the body off and leap up, grabbing my sword.

The road is empty of all but Khalid, Jaheira, Imoen, and I. I stare at the surrounding rocks and catch sight of a fleeing leather-clad form some seventy-five yards to the east, running full speed away from us. I start after him—

Then from beside me comes the terrible _thwack_ of a releasing bow string and a shaft arcs across the road, between the trees, across the meadow, and strikes the fleeing man between the shoulders. He comes off the ground from the impact, arms and legs still working, hits the ground again, and lies still, the arrow standing up from his back like a red pennant.

I turn. Imoen is up on one knee, bow in hand. Her face is tight with pain and unreadable, but she is not smiling. The bandit's arrow protrudes from the lower right side of her stomach, which is stained red.

"Imoen!" I drop my sword and run forward as she falls back onto the road. Jaheira gets there first. I skid to my knees, the armor taking the brunt of my impact with the road. Imoen's face is pale. Her right hand is covered with blood. "Jaheira, can't you—"

"Quiet, child." She inspects the wound. "You should not have gotten up." She digs into her pack as I gape at her. Chastising Imoen, _now_? Jaheira comes up with a shear-like device with only a small round hole where the blades meet. "Hold her still," she says. "We must take the armor off and we cannot do it with the arrow so long."

Khalid reaches us and drops to his knees as well. He says nothing but puts a hand on Imoen's chest and pushes her down. Jaheira fastens the shears around the arrow shaft and clamps them shut, cutting it two inches from Imoen's armor. It twists as she shears it and Imoen muffles a cry. "Off the armor," says Jaheira. I set to unbuckling Imoen's leather, the straps on the left side. I'm tempted to cut them but she's going to be wearing it, _she's going to be wearing it_, so I fumble with them until they're loose. "Lift her," says Jaheira as she pries the armor off. I lift her so she can pull the breastplate off without further twisting and she throws it away. She leans over Imoen.

"Imoen, can you hear me?"

"Course," says Imoen. Her skin has gone deathly white. Blood soaks into the dirt between the cobblestones.

"I will heal you," says Jaheira. "But we must remove the arrow. Do you understand?"

"Yeah."

Jaheira looks at me. "Hold her."

Barely giving me time to grab Imoen, she seizes the arrow and jerks it out. Imoen screams. Jaheira throws the bloody head away and presses her cloak against Imoen's wound. "Silvanus, Oak Father, grant me strength," she says, and dips her head. I can _see_ the white fire of the Art surround her in a corona as she brings her faith to bear.

_Silvanus, do not let her die_. It's almost a command, so distraught am I. _She must not die. You _hear_ me._

This time I can see the glow, as I saw it when Gorion touched my cheek. It begins in Jaheira's hands and spreads up her arms in pearly waves of light. It spreads downward as well, into the cloak she holds, then into Imoen, who opens her eyes wide and struggles, though only feebly.

Her hand shoots up and seizes hold of my arm. The skin under her fingernails is white, but the blood has returned to her arm. Jaheira bends over her, almost as if she is pouring the energy into Imoen. I can feel her strength returning as she stares at me and puts finger-shaped bruises in my arm.

Jaheira swallows, sighs, and sits back as the glow fades from her hands. She takes several deep breathes and puts a hand to her forehead. "Silvanus has shown you light, child."

Imoen frowns down at the cloak and shoves it off. Underneath her charcoal-colored shirt is ripped, but the pale skin beneath is whole. She looks at Jaheira. Then, quick as a snake, she sits up and seizes hold of her. Jaheira slumps forward onto her, patting her hair. "Rest, child. You are well."

I cannot see Imoen's face but when she let's Jaheira go, tears glimmer in her eyes. Khalid lets out a great sigh and turns away. Imoen sticks out a hand. "Up, Di."

Her voice is as clear as the brook. I grab her hand and haul her to her feet. She totters and grabs me. "Hey," I say, with the faintest of smiles—it's all I can manage, with tears in my voice.

"Don't fall there, Imoen."

((T))

Author's Note:

This is what I write. If anyone who reads this has read anything else of mine, especially on fictionpress, you may find similarities. This is also what I write for. I mentioned that I did not like last chapter. I did not like writing it because it was a slog, both because Chapter 2 Beregost is boring and I'd not considered it important enough to include much of, but it obviously was and could not be ignored. This and the next chapter are what I've been fixed on for the past week, trying to find a way to make them fit.

There are several things you will want to know if you intend to read further. Some of them may be shocks, or perhaps I'm just naïve enough to think you don't already expect this.

I do not hesitate in the use of blood in tales. This will probably become more and more obvious as this tale progresses, because BG contains a lot of fighting. I have a teensy bit of medical experience and might be able to get things a little straighter than someone who knows absolutely nothing (if only a little bit more).

As you may have noticed, I am not following strict canon. This means in the plainest terms:

_No one is immortal in this story._

I am not writing a fantasy story where everything always ends up alright. Real combat, whether in life or my books (which attempt to mimic real life) is a bloody and deadly affair for both sides. A person who sets out to kill another person stands a very good chance of killing them. In this world, a 10th level fighter stands no better chance of taking out a peasant than another peasant.

Thus I will give a Cheshire grin and say, here thou art. The story has truly begun.

A Secondary (For Bored People):

I refuse to neglect the ordinary in this tale. The ordinary actions and occurrences of the Realms aren't well-documented in my head, and this is a chance to get them down on paper so I can think clearly. In any case, that which occurs all the time is undoubtedly as, if not more, important than the brief scenes between where heads get cut off, though those are interesting too. I've mostly ignored it in my earlier writing and will not do so now. In effect, I'm introducing myself to the Realms even as Diana is, so we'll see how this goes.

Also, you may note I'm rendering words phonetically by my own dialect's standards. Unless in specific accordance with a language (such as Diana's last name) or with a contraction, I don't intend to use apostrophes in this tale in particular.

Reviews!

**Harlequin**, I don't like the idea of adventurers wandering around in a static world any more than you. I mean, what on earth would the locals with a rogue ankheg _do_ if there really weren't any adventurers? Kill the blasted thing, for one. Also (at the risk of being an ass) I'm doing this story as much (more) for myself than anyone else, and I will not release a chapter unless I think it is up to my standards with what I want to come from this story. Thank you much for the review. **Crazeefan**…touché about those dead authors. Personally I haven't suffered anything worse than getting a chunk cut out of my neck…did you cut off that review, or is "to" an ending? Odd thing about Imoen being the naïve one…I've always thought she was actually more world-wary than the protagonist, even if she didn't show it. After all, she was out in the outside world for half her life before she came to Candlekeep.

I'd hoped to fit more into this chapter, but it will function well as is in my opinion. I believe I should have a treat for New Year's Eve, but we shall see. Adieu.

K. Stramin

December 30th 2007

Bloody late


	7. Did You Dream

7

_18__th__ Uktar, 1369._

I stare down at the page, wondering yet again what to write. I've kept journals for years and generally filled them with complaints about my various duties in Candlekeep, and news that…seemed important. I lift my pen.

_I killed three men today._

Their blood remains on the road, but Jaheira, Khalid, and I dragged the bodies off to the eastern side, through a thin fringe of trees that separates the road from the brook, and left them well away from the water, but also far from where we intended to camp.

_I don't know what to call them but bandits. Brigands, perhaps. They all wore leather and had swords. Those who had bows used them on us._

And it's incredible no one but Imoen was struck. Actually, it was more of an accident than anything…the bowman had been aiming for me, and Imoen had been too close.

"Oh, come on Di," she'd said, across the fire pit Khalid had dug, as I was laying out my bedroll. "I'm fine. I walked this far, didn't I?"

Actually, Jaheira ordered her to bed and made me promise to keep her there. As if I would let Imoen get up anyway. She _was_ unharmed, but for a torn shirt, but every time I looked at her I saw the obscene shaft of the arrow, sticking out of her flesh as her blood seeped out around it.

I frown down at the notebook. The pages are creamy white parchment, the binding sewn with red thread, the covers leather with a strap to keep it closed.

_I killed them and what most surprises me is that I don't much mind it._

I look down at those lines for a long time, straining my eyes in the dimming light. "Diana," says Jaheira, "The fire, if you will."

I sigh and put away my notebook. Since leaving Candlekeep I have learned there is an art to starting fires. I've read brief treatises from other places that speak of alchemical creations that can start fires much more quickly…but here, on the Sword Coast, flint and steel still rule supreme.

It's not as much of a chore as it was a ten-day ago. I've learned how to manipulate the two. Within five minutes the fire is crackling, casting its light onto the rock face behind me and making a beacon for anyone wanting to find us.

We eat another stew, this one of celery, beef, and various spices. It's the first meal I haven't truly enjoyed on this trip; my mind is on other things.

We moved only about a quarter mile from where we killed the bandits, mostly to get out of immediate range of any animals that might come sniffing around during the night. Jaheira and Khalid removed their arms and armor and carried them here, piling them off to one side, where they lie glittering with reflected light.

_The bandits were carrying steel swords and daggers. According to Jaheira they probably had horses, but we did not find them_. _Jaheira did not like that._ She'd been gone at least an hour, scouring the area around the road for the animals, but come back empty-handed and in a foul temper.

_I suspect they were based elsewhere and walked here. But if they were after iron and encountered a great quantity, how would they transport it back? And what would they do with it if they only had horses? A wagon would be better for more._

Khalid sinks down on the bedroll he and Jaheira share and loosens the straps that hold his breastplate on. He slides it off and carefully sets it down beside him. Despite our time on the road the steel shines just as brilliantly as when I first saw him don it, back in the Friendly Arm. "Khalid," I say, "Do you think they had horses?"

He glances up, startled. Everything seems to startle Khalid. "Wh-what?" But he's heard me. He thinks on it for a time. Imoen and I watch him. Jaheira comes back and sits down beside him, and absently he slides an arm around her waist and draws her close.

"It depends," he says at last, in sober tones. "There are several p-possible scenarios. The first is that there were, and we did not f-find them, because they were hidden further out. The raiders would not have wanted their mounts to give them away."

"We should look further tomorrow," says Jaheira. "Yes, further out."

Khalid goes on. "Also, they could have left their mounts wherever they set up, which c-could be anywhere within several days travel. They traveled here by foot. If they encountered a sufficient quantity of, uh, loot, that they needed horses, one c-could go back for the others while the rest dealt with d-dividing it."

"How likely do you think that is?"

Khalid shrugs. "I do not know. I am n-not them."

"Thanks."

He nods, staring into the growing fire.

"We should sleep," says Jaheira. "Especially you, Imoen. You have suffered a terrible shock today."

I expect Imoen to complain about this, but she simply nods and turns to face away from us, into the darkness, and draws her blankets close.

"You too, Diana," says Jaheira. "I am sure you are not feeling all as you should."

I look up, startled. "What?"

"Sleep. I think tomorrow will be better. We should arrive in Nashkel."

I look back down at my journal and scribble._ We should arrive in Nashkel tomorrow. None too soon. I wonder what the town will be like. _Something to ask them tomorrow.

I frown down at the page. It is becoming a struggle to keep my eyelids up. I haven't slept well the last few nights; it was the same in Beregost. I don't always dream, but I always think.

_I hope I don't dream tonight._

The firelight wavers across the page, casting strange, flickering shadows among my words. I close my journal, marking where I stopped with a blue ribbon given to me by Imoen long ago, and slip it into my pack next to the leather-bound volume that is my spell and research tome. I lie down, look up at the stars that have begun to glimmer in the sky…

((A))

Still sitting next to Jaheira on the bedroll, Khalid watches as Diana Sha'el'sa closes her eyes. He hopes tonight she gets the rest she deserves.

"I fear for her," says Jaheira, in tones that will not carry.

Khalid looks over at her but says nothing.

"She seems fragile," says Jaheira—an aside to the previous comment, not the defense it seems to be. Long ago she learned what Khalid means with his looks, just as he knows how she uses her supposedly sharp tongue.

Khalid shrugs. Oddly enough, when there is only Jaheira to hear him, he does not stutter as much. Not that she has a calming effect on him…far from it. "She is strong."

He stands and begins the arduous process of pulling off his mail shirt. Jaheira helps, and he lifts his breastplate and stacks them with the same care, only off to one side now. He starts to unfasten the numerous buttons that keep him stuffed in his padded shirt like a clam—but Jaheira helps with that too.

Shortly, they slide between their blankets. Khalid gazes up, awestruck as always by the night sky. At times, Jaheira has teased him about this admiration of nature, but not once she realized how serious he was. Khalid admits that yes, there are times when he doesn't seem particularly serious.

Jaheira shifts against him. He can feel her warm breathe on his ear. "What do they seem tonight?"

Khalid looks up at the stars. "Cold," he says. Selune shows as a sliver of white in the sky, like a scimitar. "Colder than the Spine, and brighter."

He can feel Jaheira's warmth against him. He closes his eyes, shutting out the stars. He turns to her, shifting the blankets, and kisses her. Then he does something else that makes her inhale sharply.

"Khalid!" she hisses. "Not now! We need to talk. About Diana."

"Are you sure? Tonight?"

Her voice becomes low and throaty. "Is tomorrow not soon enough for you? It is so much better in a true bed."

Khalid smiles. Then it fades. He holds her, warm and supple in his arms, so close he can almost feel her heart beating. "You're right. We do need to talk. But I am not certain how much change our talking might effect. She is who she is, Jaheira. And she will become who she will."

Jaheira's gray eyes have turned serious. "She is so fragile, Khalid. The events of the past have shaken her. You know as well as I, what Gorion told us. And now Gorion is gone as well."

Khalid holds her even tighter. Though he is just as warm, her inner glow seems to seep into him. "Yes." He pauses. "But she seems willing to open her mind, and serious about her own safety. Much as I hate to admit it, that time taught her something."

He cannot see Jaheira's frown, only her eyes, which darken. "But what if she breaks?"

"We will do all we can to prevent it. As it is…" he twists around to look at the sleeping figure across the way. Firelight paints her red-gold hair and deepens the shadows under her eyes.

"You are right, Jaheira," Khalid says after a long moment. "I have no doubt she is having d-dreams."

"Again," says Jaheira. "But I would rather let her sleep, at least a little, than awaken her and let her know we know of them."

"Then what do you intend to do?"

Jaheira sighs. "I am not sure. It may be she will pass through this. But today has shaken her. Not so much the men she has killed, I think. But Imoen."

Khalid turns back to her. "How close was she?"

"Closer than many, not as close as some. But you saw Diana's eyes." Jaheira nods across at the tousled, sleeping form, not quite a girl or woman as of yet.

"I know enough to know what she dreams of tonight."

((A))

It is dark, yet light. A road runs through rocky terrain. Miniature cliffs—mesas—rise all around. The sky is deepest blue and everything is bathed in light as if by the fullness of Selune, but there is no Selune in the sky.

The light turns mesas, road, rocks, and ground an odd, dull sapphire, as I go down the road. Gorion is on one side, Imoen on the other. I can hear nothing—no speech, no night creatures, no wind. There are no trees, and no rustling of their branches if there were. The road twists and wends back and forth through a valley between the mesas, dwindling in either direction into blue-blackness.

I feel a tug on my left arm and look over. Imoen, shaded in blues and smiling, gestures ahead of us. An azure Gorion tugs on my other arm, nodding the way we have come. Their lips move, but I hear no words.

Then Imoen's eyes widen and her mouth opens in a shout. Her finger shoots up, pointing over my shoulder. I spin to see a massive black-armored form break from the shadows of one of the mesas and charge forward, a sword so dark it hurts my eyes swinging casually as a walking stick in one hand. Gorion turns to meet the threat, lifting his own staff. Blue light blazes from the tip. He spins back around briefly, mouth working, but again I cannot hear his words. His eyes flash and his finger stabs behind me.

I spin around and see half a dozen blue, leather-clad forms break from cover and charge at us from the other way, waving sapphire swords high. Imoen draws her own sword, shorter and lighter than theirs, and moves, shouting over her shoulder. Again I cannot hear, but I recognize one word from her lips. _Run._

Run? I reach down to draw my own sword, but it is not there. I do not even have my belt on. Instead I wear a white nightdress of silk. I gape at it, then something happens behind me. I cannot hear or even feel it, but I spin around, sick to my stomach.

The dark, armored fiend stands over Gorion's body, hacking with his sword. With each blow cerulean blood flies up to spatter against the moonless sky.

_No!_ I scream, and run forward, but the nightdress catches around my legs. I trip and scrape hands and knees when I land on the rough cobblestones. The fiend looks up, and his eyes are _not_ blue, not any shade of blue, but a hot, infernal yellow, as if something horrible and evil is looking through him into the world. He flings his sword skyward and a rain of blue droplets patters around me, staining my dress and smearing on my arms and face. I taste the salt of blood. My stomach roils.

Then I spin around as Imoen meets the first of the sapphire brigands. She spins around him and delivers a two-handed backward strike, driving her sword its full length into his back. He drops to his face and she dispatches another, hamstringing him and cutting his throat from behind. She strikes again, always from behind—and then the fourth bandit lets loose an arrow. I watch as it seems to fragment in the air, turning into five, ten, twenty arrows, and my scream goes unheard as they strike Imoen without sound in a bone-jolting rain that flings her straight back to the ground.

Then I scream. It rolls out around me, audible now. I snatch at my sword and it comes free with a tearing of leather, bringing the scabbard with it. There is no nightgown, I am not she, and _this will not go unpunished._

The bandit smirks at me, even as I bring my sword down on top of his head. He splits in two from crown to waist and drops. The last bandit fires another arrow that hisses past my ear and I turn. I can feel my own gaze as if my eyes were aflame, and he does as well. He turns to run. I throw my sword.

It strikes him with such force it plunges straight through him and out of his chest, and vanishes in midair a few feet beyond. He falls, limp and dead, to the ground.

White silk flutters around my legs again as I run to Imoen. A thicket of feathered arrow shafts stands up from her chest, but she is moving. Sapphire blood leaks from the corner of her mouth as she tries, _tries_ to speak. Her lips move, but I cannot hear her voice. I can only watch her lips.

_Run, Di._

She drops back to the ground, eyes staring at the sky, blank and dead as pearls.

"Mornin, miss."

I turn, rising, brushing off my nightgown, as another man emerge from the shadows. He wears leathers and a dagger at his waist, and a broad-brimmed leather hat that shadows his face. He holds a pipe in one hand. His walk is a swagger, but for some reason I can't remember exactly what that word means right now.

"Good morning, sir," I say. The world seems just a touch blue now. I wonder why that might be. Where am I?"

I see a pennant flapping from a tall tower, the tallest of a massive stone fortress.

"Wheyill," says the man. "I do believe this is Candlekeep. Supposing that you live here, you'd know better, right?"

I frown at him. He's stepped close. Too close. "What's your name?" I say, before I can stop myself. "My name's Diana." Is my voice too high? Is that even me speaking?

"Cayhill," he says. "Tornin Cayhill." He sweeps off his hat, and I see his eyes. They are normal enough, in the normal sense; they are blue.

But they are hungry. I see the hunger in them. He steps forward again, definitely too close now. He's much taller than I, almost twice my height, though normal-sized compared with the walls, like all tall people—

Blackness. My mouth is open to scream denial when the world goes dark. The man is gone. Candlekeep is gone. All around is blackness.

But not quite all black. I look up and see stars sparkling in the sky—sparkling, not twinkling as if they might go out. _Sparkling_, like gems forever fixed there in the heavens.

_Am I right to suppose you didn't like that particular one?_

My eyes go wide. The voice is _not_ out loud! It's not even mine!

"Who are you?" I shout. My voice is back to normal. I look down and see I'm wearing the clothes I went to sleep in—

I'm asleep?

_Who am I? It doesn't really matter much, at this stage. Just that I'm _here_ is unusual. Or rather, that you're here._

I spin in the darkness. "Where am I?"

_Asleep._

"I've never been asleep like this before!"

The voice is warm and somehow rough. A great pair of eyes appears before me, hung in the air, looking me over. They are green, and slitted.

_You have never been as you are before. You are interesting, De'ana. I will watch you, for a time._

"But who are you?" My voice cracks with fear. I fight it down.

Silence.

_I am one who has no name._ The eyes blink out, leaving me in blackness.

For the first time in a long time, the dreams of Gorion, and Imoen, and Cayhill do not return.

((A))

For the first time in what seems weeks, I awake early, and refreshed. I lay for awhile, just looking into the sky, wondering why I had such a strange dream. Then I blink and fumble for my journal.

_19__th__ Uktar. Morning._

I pause.

_I slept well for the first time_

Again, I stop. I set the pen down and stare at the journal. First night's sleep…

Since Gorion died. All I can remember of last night is blackness—a somehow soothing blackness, and a voice. _"I will watch you, for a time."_

Now my dreams are speaking to me. This is getting very s—

Imoen. Gorion. The road, the blue road at the center of nowhere.

My breath catches in my throat. I look over, half-afraid the bedroll will be—

Imoen's eyes are open. She is looking at me. She smiles.

I look away, trying to control my breathing. I drop my journal twice before I get it firmly in hand. I scratch out the previous line.

_I dreamed last night. I'm not sure what I dreamed. But Gorion died again. And Imoen died._

As I look at the words on the page, they seem to burn with some vile aura. I'm tempted to scratch out the last three, but don't.

_It was a dream. It was only a dream._

But it hadn't been yesterday. My hand shakes so much my careful, controlled writing turns into scribbles and it looks as if I'm stuttering on the paper.

_Imoen n-nearly died y-yesterday. I held her and watched her w-w-while she was dying. But she d-d-d—_

Hot wetness tries to burn its way out from beneath my eyelids. My eyes are shut. My writing must have gone berserk, but I can't see it and don't' care. I drop my journal to the ground. The tears come loose.

I grab my blanket and bury my face in it. I can't help my sobs, but I can keep them quiet enough so that no one notices.

A slither of fabric. "Diana."

Caught by surprise in the middle of a hiccup, I look up. Khalid stands there, wearing nothing but trousers, shirt, and belt, his boots in hand. His voice was so different, gentle compared to his normal nervous chatter.

He can see my face. I turn it away.

A hand takes my arm. "Come on."

I'm too stupid, too upset to resist. I allow Khalid to draw me around to the other side of the ridge. Trees spread out to the horizon here, in a scattered forest. Their leaves are orange and yellow, and the ground is carpeted in colors.

I take my blanket with me, pressed to my face, and would have fallen had Khalid not helped me over the rough spots. I can't look at him. My throat seems to have swollen up and I doubt I could talk to him. But then, he already knows I'm crying. What can I do?

Khalid sits me down on a stump of rock. I turn away, face in my blanket.

"Diana. Uncover your eyes."

I push him away. He takes hold of my face blanket and pulls it away.

The sky is still dim, dawn far off. I cover my face with my hands and look away.

"There is no shame in honest tears, Diana." I haven't even noticed his stutter is gone. His voice is gentle. "You need not hide them from me, or from any of us."

I look over at him. He's blurry, as are my eyes. He sits on a stump of rock not far off, still holding his boots. For the first time since I've met him, he looks calm.

I manage a word. "But—"

Khalid waits for me to continue, but I don't have anything to say. I'm not sure what I would say if I had something to say…

Khalid waits, until I have finished. The ground soaks up my tears without complaint. They dry on my cheeks, leaving crusted tracks I can feel but cannot see.

"Diana, what is wrong?"

I wait as well, until I am sure my voice will be steady enough. "I…I dreamed last night."

Khalid nods.

"About Gorion."

He nods.

"And Imoen."

Khalid is looking down at the ground. "And they died."

I feel the tears creeping up again. "Yes." I shove them away with my shirtsleeve.

"Do you dream like this often?"

"Every night, since Candlekeep. Since…" I stop. I cannot speak. The sharp-edged lump has returned to my gullet.

Silence settles over the forest. I do not know what to say. Khalid says nothing for a time.

"I am not sure if I can even h-help with this, Diana. I have walked for a long time, and had to kill people, and seen people I cared for die. This is how it is."

_This is supposed to help_? I think, but keep quiet.

"I cannot change what has happened. Those who are gone remain gone, most of the time."

I look up. "Most of the time?"

Khalid gives a little smile. "There are those who can call back spirits. They say they can return life. And it is true…but it does not happen very often."

He falls silent, thinking. After a long while, he speaks.

"Diana, we can't change that people die. Gorion was a fine man, one of the bravest and kindest I have known. And he cared enough for you to give his life. Now it is your choice what to do with it."

He is silent for a long minute. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

"Yes." It's obvious, so painfully obvious. I don't like it.

"Gorion raised you as he could. You have a skill in the sword, and as we have seen, in the spell."

"But I didn't even mean to do what I did yesterday! I meant—"

Khalid holds up a hand. "D-Diana. What did you dream of, in Candlekeep?"

I close my mouth. Khalid is serious. I can do no less than think. It is not difficult. "I wanted to ride the waves out past Mintarn. I wanted to ride the roads outside of Luskan, and walk in the Elven Court."

"And what," says Khalid, "Will stop you from doing that? Your life is here, Diana. It is now your choice." He pauses, then says softly, "The present will pass you by if you live in the past. Neither should you wait too long for the future to find you."

"I don't know where to go, Khalid." I hate how my voice has gotten so small. But Khalid only nods.

"Diana. I said nothing about it having to be now. But if these dreams of yours are of the past, perhaps it is time to let the past go. Remember those who fought and died, and mourn them, but do not let them dominate your thoughts. Today, and tomorrow, are still to come. You cannot speak in yesterday anymore."

_He speaks truth, De'ana. Heed him._

I look around. The voice!

"Do you understand this?"

I look at him for a long moment. "I think I do, Khalid."

He nods. "Then it is time to go, Diana. Nashkel awaits."

((A))

We go back around the rock. Jaheira is awake and dressed, and stirring up the coals to heat this morning's version of last night's stew. If there's one thing I will not miss about road food, it's the same thing morning and night.

Imoen is sitting up, scowling at her. "You mean I have to stay here until we're ready to go? I've been cooped up here forever!"

Khalid smiles and joins Jaheira, giving her a look. She smiles. I walk over to Imoen. She looks up at me. She positively glows in the early light. "Hey, Di. You look better." She frowns. "Except for—"

She tries to stand up. I take her arm and pull her the rest of the way up, then pull her into a hug so tight it hurts. "You scared the hell out of me, Imoen," I whisper in her ear. "Don't do that again."

She pushes away, color rising in her cheeks. "Di!"

I smile at her. "Okay?"

She frowns, imitating a bugbear—or ogre—and scratches her head. "Okay, then, next time I'll just dodge the arrow I don't see."

I give her a playful push. "Okay, Imoen?"

She sighs. "Promise, Di."

I look over at Jaheira. "We'll need to get some better armor. What stops arrows?"

"Metal," she says. "Metal plates. Links are decent but not good. A steel point will penetrate. Plate is much better."

"Like yours?" I nod over at her sculpted metal breastplate, the one that goes overtop of her leather.

"Yes."

"Where can we get them?"

"It would have been better to have them made in Beregost," she says, glancing at Khalid. "But metal is very expensive."

I recall the care Khalid takes with his armor. "As in, more than we have?"

"Most likely."

Great. Let's just hope we don't meet anyone else with a bow and a spare arrow. "Then let's get on with this mine business and get paid," I say, turning to fold up my bedroll.

"That is," says Jaheira, "We do the business _first_, then get paid."

"Then let's get to it," I agree, and Jaheira gives me an odd glance. A moment later, I realize it is one of respect.

((A))

We leave the stream, or it leaves us, about a mile before the outskirts of Nashkel. The first building I see is a massive multicolored fabric tent, looming on one side of the road. Then another pops up, just beyond it, and a smaller, hexagonal tent on the right side of the road.

"This is Nashkel?"

Khalid and Jaheira are frowning too. Imoen says nothing, only looks from one tent to the other, a grin growing on her face.

"No, this is not," says Jaheira. "Nashkel begins where the river crosses a bridge. The bridge is further ahead. I do not know what these are—"

A man bursts out of the nearest tent and rushes across the road. For a minute, I just stare. He's wearing nothing but a pair of boots. He dives through the door of a much smaller, one-person tent across the road.

I blink. I look over at the others. "That did just happen, didn't it?"

Jaheira makes a disgusted sound. Khalid smiles.

"I think the Fair has begun."

((A))

Jaheira continues being disgusted as we make our way down the road past growing numbers of tents. Only the larger ones are multicolored; the smaller are crème-colored or dull tan. With Jaheira rolling her eyes, it falls to Khalid to explain to Imoen and I about the Nashkel Fair.

"There is a l-lot of farmland around h-here," says Khalid, his stutter returned by us and the proximity of town and his own nervousness. "Many miles to the east, and a g-great many farmers. Every several years, from the first of Uktar to the first of Nightal, they and the people of Nashkel cooperate to produce this." He waves his hand around at the tents. "It's a very long affair involving c-c-c-contests," he frowns, concentrating. "Games, competitions, exhibitions by p-p-people from inside and outside town. S-some come all the way up from Amn to see it."

And we've just arrived in the middle of it. I look around. "Why is no one around?"

"It is early," says Khalid. "Relatively so. The F-Fair begins around noon and continues well into the night hours. Those," he says, pointing to two barrels sitting beside a tent, "Are oil. They burn quite a lot of it in a month."

We pass through the empty Fair and further south, and come again to the creek of yesterday. It widens and spills down a series of rapids, and here is bridged by a fixed stone affair, so old that feet, wheels, and hooves have worn the stones along its length until they are smooth.

Standing at this end of the bridge are two soldiers in full armor, chain and plate, with halberds in their hands, swords at their sides, and helmets with red dragon wings painted on them. One steps forward, putting out a hand. "Halt traveler!" he bellows, loud enough to hurt my ears.

We come to a halt. The man looks over us. He's relatively young, but his face is bronzed and his arms are leathery. "What business do you have in the town of Nashkel?"

Jaheira steps forward. "We need speak to Berran Ghastkill."

The man surveys us with distaste. "Move along," he says, sounding bored. "But keep your weapons sheathed. You've crossed into Amn, traveler. Our laws apply here."

He steps aside and we cross the bridge, two abreast.

The town of Nashkel is barely that; more a village, it stretches out to the east of the stream—a tavern, some kind of general store, a modest church of Helm, and beyond, a cluster of houses, perhaps fifty in number.

"Village," I mutter. Jaheira nods.

"It is so. But I do not remember it being so small. Khalid?"

"Nor I," he says, surveying the town. All of the buildings—except for the cluster at the end—neatly fit on one side of the broad main street. As we pass between buildings, I catch a glimpse of some kind of estate to the north, along a diverging road. "Where do we meet the mayor, and when?" I ask.

"Whenever there is time," says Jaheira, "Though I doubt he would see us this early."

Again this _early_ stuff. It's almost noon. Jaheira and Khalid stop in the street.

"Soldiers," says Jaheira. Khalid nods.

I look around and blink. There are at least two dozen armored men along the street, and one emerging from the door of the tavern. One sits on a stool outside a large, warehouse-like structure further down the street, looking bored.

"Things are much the same here as Beregost," says Khalid. "They are p-preparing to attack or defend."

"Which?" I ask. Khalid shrugs.

"It depends. I have no idea. Both." He looks over and smiles. "You see?"

"There is one way to discover local concerns, and perhaps thoughts," says Jaheira. She looks at Khalid. "What say you?"

He shrugs. "Certainly." He reaches out an arm, links it with hers, and they step sideways, through the door of the tavern.

I blink. "Er," says Imoen, "That was interesting."

I nod. "Thirsty, Imoen?"

"Not really, Di."

I look around. "Does that mean you want to hold Eliea? I don't think they'd want a mule inside."

Imoen leads Eliea over to a hitching post out front of the tavern. "If we can see her through the window," she says. "No one is stealing her." She raises an eyebrow.

I smile, and we go inside.

((A))

It's a far cry from the Jovial Juggler. Smoke lingers in the air from several pipes. Raucous laughter booms from one end of the room. Dim light filters through the windows. Small tables crowd the floor, giving barely enough space to squeeze past.

Jaheira has sat down near the bar. Khalid is getting drinks. I survey the rest of the room. The pipes belong to several crotchety old men in the corners. One has long, gnarled ears but I doubt he's an elf. In the corner nearest the window a cloaked figure sits with a tankard before it. I sit down across from Jaheira and explain about Eliea. Jaheira calls to Khalid, and we all end up with drinks.

There's surprisingly little talk for a tavern. The few gossipers do it in low, gruff tones. The old men puff on their pipes, expelling great clouds of white smoke that swirl for minutes, making bizarre shapes. The ale is good, if a little weak. I keep my ears open.

Five minutes later the doors bang open and two men come in. They move directly to the bar and return to sit down several tables away. Khalid studies them. "Soldiers," he remarks. "On break."

I look over at them. Even I can tell they're something other than townsfolk. There's a straightness to their shoulders, and more muscle on their arms. They haven't seen as much sun as a farmer, but they've been outside a good deal. They hunch over their tankards, talking.

"So we've moving out tomorrow mornin, to the north."

"Why north? We invading?"

"Naw. Just clearing the roads. Last bandit hit was half a day north of here, about three days ago. It's not our territory, but…you know," says one of the soldiers. "If they're too pansy to do it, we've got to."

"Well good luck with that," says the other. "We're going out this afternoon to find Brage."

Silence.

"Again? Last men who went out after him never even reported back."

"You're telling me, Evauns. But Lieutenant says, so we go."

"That's crazy. You saw what he did, right?"

"Never had the chance. Not like I'd want to, though."

"Cut his wife's head clean off. Stabbed his children to death. He's not sane, Trey. And even when he was he was the best fighter in the squad. You know that."

Trey chuckles. "I saw him best the mayor in a mock duel. Yeah, you're right." He sobers. "But one man against ten can't just wipe us all out. And we'll be wary. You will be too, no doubt."

"No doubt," says Evauns. His moustache is covered in foam. "Then here's to caution and bravery, and getting back in one piece." He lifts his tankard. Trey clanks it. The barkeep hisses as a piece of one of the tankards breaks off.

"Good ale," says Trey as he and Evauns slide out of their seats. They exit through the front door, leaving their tankards on the table.

I look over at Khalid. "Any idea?"

He shrugs. "Town news. We should talk to Ghastkill." Were he entirely human, Khalid would have a moustache much like Evauns's by now, but he doesn't.

"And we shall," says Jaheira. "After a mug." She knocks her mug on the table. I become aware of an uncomfortable tightness low down in my gut.

"Did anyone see where the jakes were?"

"Out back," says Khalid. "There's a door beside the bar."

I hurry out the door, back into the cloudy day. Trees crowd around the back of the tavern. I draw in deep breaths of air and see the jakes—two ugly little buildings squatting there amidst the trees.

I pick one and do my business, and come out still marveling at how fresh the air is compared to the smoky hell inside the tavern.

"Greetings."

The voice is light, and sweet. For a moment I think it's Imoen doing an imitation. I look around and spot a woman leaning against the back wall of the tavern. She wears a thick skin cloak, lined with some kind of gray-black fur. Beneath it, she is so slender as to be called wiry. Her hood is down. Her face is sharp-edged and hawk-nosed, as if someone has taken a grindstone to it. Her hair is black.

I frown. "Do I know you?"

"Well," she says, grinning like the wolf whose pelt she wears. "Not really. But do I know you. I didn't expect to meet you here, not out in broad daylight, but here you are, walking around showing your face plain as day." She shrugs. "But who am I to argue free coins?"

With that she drops a hand under her cloak and draws a mace that must weigh eight pounds. Its black steel shaft is engraved with swirling black cloud-like things. She flings back her cloak and displays a polished steel shield grasped in her other arm, and I realize that the dark, shifting clothing she's wearing is actually a full suit of blackened chain mail.

"Wait," I say as she begins to walk toward me. "Don't do this." My mind shouts at me _another one? How can there be another one? Carbos, and the mage, and now _this?

"It's done, girl," she says, stalking me with a caution I don't feel I deserve. "You've crossed some folks who want you dead, and I'm here to make that so."

I draw my own sword. I cleaned and polished it yesterday, as instructed by Khalid. I wish I had a shield, but wouldn't really know how to use it—damn those wasted lessons!

"I don't want to hurt you," I say, surprised at the firmness of my own voice. "But I'll kill you if I have do. I will not die easily."

She laughs. It's a throaty sound, probably resulting from too many shots of fire wine or the like. "By all means, fight, dearie. It wouldn't be any fun if you didn't."

She approaches in a half-crouch, mace in her right hand, shield at the ready in her left. She wears no helmet. Any strike I make must penetrate her armor, or strike at her neck or head. My stomach lurches for a moment at the thought of killing yet another person—especially one who has spoken to me—but I shove it down with the same firmness that has entered my voice.

The woman, the bounty hunter, is coming straight at me. I feint to the left and her mace-arm shoots out to block my progress. I lift my sword and duck back to the right. She shifts that direction. I glance down and see that she's wearing heavy boots. Nothing a good stab couldn't penetrate. Head and feet. Head and feet…

She lunges and I instinctively parry, but it's only a feint. She drops low, swinging her mace in an arc at my knee. It's a long weapon, long enough so that I can't strike at her neck before it shatters my knee. I step back and it hisses past.

She steps back, steadying herself and regaining her own balance. Her feint and strike were foolish moves, putting her at unnecessary risk. Why? To measure me? Her chest rises and falls easily, while I am already tired. Was that the point?

She steps forward, crowding me with her shield. I step back and she steps forward. I leapt backward, trying to put as much space as possible between us—and her cocked mace slams into my shoulder, jolting me from shoulder to shoulder. Her blow knocks me sideways into the wall of the jakes and I fall. I land on my sword hand, trapping it under me. She steps back and cocks her mace. She's smiling, the female dog.

I roll onto my back, free my hand, and swing at her ankle. My blade bites in. Her smile transforms into a gape and she drops like a rock, taking my sword with her. She hits the ground and squeals, almost like a pig. She rolls, grabbing at my sword, which is apparently pinned between the bones of her ankle. She has dropped her mace and her shield bangs uselessly as she seizes my sword. Blood has already soaked the leg of her trousers; her chain does not extend that far down.

I'm surprised, and both pleased and disgusted at the coolness with which I think these thoughts. But there is one course open if I want to live through this. She's not going to give up, even with my sword through her ankle. I step over and pick up her mace. "Surrender," I say, testing its weight.

She snarls and yanks at my sword. Blood spurts and it comes free. She has half-severed her own foot. Ragged tendons show through her shorn trouser leg. She whimpers and tries to use my sword as a crutch, but it sinks into the earth.

I don't want to do this. I _don't_ want to do this but…what else is there to do?

_Tell the Amnians. The guards._

And what will they do? What's to keep her from claiming that I attacked her? Khalid? Jaheira? Imoen? I've read of Amn. It is not a particularly "traveler" friendly nation. We might all just get thrown in jail.

And this woman has tried to kill me.

"Who sent you?" I ask.

She hobbles forward, loses her grasp on my sword, and falls back to the ground. Blood pumps from her ankle. "Tell me," I say, "And I will let you live."

"To go to jail for the rest of my life?" she snarls. "Been there, dearie, not a chance." She wriggles up from the ground again. Somehow, her own blood has gotten on her face, and into her mouth, or perhaps she's bitten her tongue. She lifts a hand and points it at me. She says a single word of a spell.

I swing the mace at her hand. The massive bell-shaped head smashes her forearm. She jerks back, suppressing a howl. Once again I'm impressed at her control. "Surrender!" I say, wondering how at once I can be so calm and yet so frightened and sickened by what I might, what I _will_ have to do.

She lifts her other arm, pointing it at me, and starts another spell.

_Enough_.

I lift the mace high, and bring it down as hard as I can on her skull.

((T))

Author's Note:

A rather sudden end, yes. Therefore?

This chapter did not turn out how I expected it to. I wrote one version, then decided I'd gotten it all wrong and rewrote it, then stopped half a page into it and rewrote it again. Wonderful.

I'm beginning to realize—and probably will continue to realize, and complain about—how much effort this story is going to take. This does not mean I'm not going to do it, as my previous reasons still apply. I like the storyline, and while I may not agree with Diana Sha'el'sa and what she's becoming (which is?) she'll become it anyway, as Khajeira said.

A few rationales for my changes:

The Lord of Shadows…is one of the names for Mask, God of Thieves. I did not like Neira, with her full armor and helmet, as a priest of Mask. Priests of Mask are generally religious thieves. So I changed her. Tell me what you think, or argue. Either's fine.

There may be some debate over whether to call people who live in Amn Amnians or Amish, but I do believe they are Amnians. Has an "n" after all.

No. This is not a fast-paced story, at least not at this point. I'd rather stroll than run.

Reviews!

**Harlequin137**, though it took awhile to build, other perspectives did make it into the story. Truth be told, I think it would be a good deal flatter without someone else's view. And concerning raise dead spells…well, take a minute to think on your average farmer. Let's say a raise dead spell costs 500gp. Your average farmer earns something like 1 sp/day. That's something like thirteen years to save up for that one spell, if he didn't eat or buy firewood. On the other hand, a good many people _do_ buy raise dead spells or have rich friends, which is why it's a good idea to cut an enemy's head off, thus requiring _resurrection_ or _true _resurrection (I believe, I'm still a little fuzzy on 3.5 rules) which takes a _much_ higher level spellcaster. Watching gods, I'm trying to put logic into a fantasy setting…strike me down now. **CrazeeFfan**, well, my problem is writing things _other_ than fighting. Fighting for me is boring. And blood…well, it's not unique to this story. Truth be told, I'd rather have a good deal of blood in a tale than none, or at least some rather than none. Yes, I think the word you meant is cheaper. It sounds right to me at least. And an odd thing about Imoen and her potions and wand—yes, as a stickler for D&D, it is a _wand_ of magic missiles. A _rod_ of magic missiles…I wonder what that would do. Every time I play the bloody game, she _doesn't have the wand._ Oh well. And where did the wand go, anyway? Where was it during the bandit fight? Well, I suppose in the heat of combat people forget things.

I hope I have a chapter out sooner than this time, but as things become more complex (both with story and my life) it's doubtful I'll do any better than this one. Adieu.

K. Stramin

January 4th

Almost early


	8. Grim Words on a Page

8

There is blood on my gloves. It's turned the cured leather an odd kind of brownish black.

Compared to the brightness of outside the tavern seems like total darkness. The first face I see is pallid white, long and narrow and set in what seems a perpetual, apologetic droop. It's the bartender, or tavernmaster, or beermaster…or whatever they call them, down south in Amn.

Jaheira, Khalid, and Imoen still sit where I left them. They look up as I sit. My shoulder aches, but without the stabbing pain I've been told indicates a broken bone.

Khalid and Jaheira exchanged a glance. Imoen is staring at the ceiling. Jaheira looks at me.

"Um, child," she begins.

I shoot up a hand. "Shut up. For a minute."

Though it won't do any good, I reach over and prod my left arm. I wince. Jaheira looks from my face to my arm and back. I lean across the table.

"There was another bounty hunter out there," I say, as softly as possible. "She just tried to kill me."

I can't help but smile, a bit, as Jaheira slams back into her chair as if hit by lightning. Khalid's mouth drops open. Imoen's mouth snaps shut as she comes back from the ceiling. In a moment they're all staring at me.

"She's lying out back. I don't have a clue what to do with her." My words feel as if they're coming out amidst a torrent of ice.

A myriad of emotions race across Jaheira's face. "Is she alive?"

I open my mouth to say…something, and then shut it. I shake my head.

Jaheira nods. "Khalid, Imoen. Remain here. We will deal with this."

Without another word, she rises and makes for the rear door. It creaks open and is in the midst of closing when I hit it too.

((A))

The woman's body lies amidst bloodstained grass beside one of the jakes. Her bloody mace lies beside her. Jaheira takes in the scene at a glance and looks at me. "You are a mage, correct?"

_What does that have to do with—_"Yes," I say, cutting off the thought. No time for that. The woods around us seem deep and quiet, but are only a thin screen which separates us from the road to the north, and the tents that comprise the Nashkel Fair. Any minute a soldier is going to come through them and see us, and—

"Can you make her smaller?"

I blink. I look from Jaheira to the body. That never occurred to me. Why? "By how much?"

"As much as possible. I will deal with her blood."

A part of me draws away, revolted, as I bend down over The woman's battered, mail-wrapped body. Perhaps it's the same part that made me vomit when I let Carbos fall atop a sword, or when I burned a man's head off. Somehow, today, it doesn't seem nearly as strong.

I haven't looked at my spell tome for more than a week. I knew the force missile spell in my mind before I left with Gorion, and didn't think—unthinking fool that I'd been—to use it anytime before the bandits on the road. Were I an ordinary mage, that would mean I had no spells in mind now, when I need them most. But, as Gorion and Tethtoril commented many times, I am _not_ an ordinary mage.

I touch the woman's cooling, metal-clad arm with one finger and hiss out the brief words to the spell. This time there is no wrenching or tearing. The energy gathers within me like pale fire and flows down my arm. Beneath my finger, the woman's flesh shifts and…_shrinks_. Her body contracts inward, as if she is aging in reverse. Her armor and equipment stay the same and she shrivels up inside of them. I pour power into the spell, heightening it so it will get the job done. It ceases flowing and begins pulling at me, using my own energy to power itself.

I drop back, breathing hard. Without a word Jaheira pushes me so I don't fall on the bloodstains. I lean against the wooden wall of the jakes as sparks flash before my eyes.

Jaheira studies the child-sized body before her, then pulls her gloves from her belt, puts them on, and hefts the woman's shrunken form off the ground. Her chain mail now looks like a dull black cloak around her. Jaheira carries the body around me and into the jakes. Silence. There is a sodden, thunking splash.

Jaheira emerges, looking grim. In one hand she holds a belt with attached money pouch. I stand. "And the blood?"

Jaheira takes the bloodstained mace and drops it in the jakes as well, then returns and looks me up and down. "Are you well?"

"Tired. The spell. What about the blood?"

She shrugs and moves into the darkened grass, now black-red and slowly seeping into the yellow grass. She plants one hand on the ground and closes her eyes.

"What are you going to do?"

She does not respond. She seems to have stopped breathing. Her lips move, but no sound emerges. Once again I see the white fire of the Weave, tinged with the green that seems to be her mark, seethe and hiss and emerge into the world of my mage sight. Calling up the Weave doesn't make any noise, usually, but every time I see the energy, how it pulses and flickers and coils about itself like a nest of snakes, I imagine it does.

There's an odd sighing sound, as of wind rushing through trees. Something pulls at me, like a dozen children's hands. I step back, away from Jaheira as the white fire builds in its own world. It does not come into the one Imoen or Khalid could see, but I can see it clearly. I've always been able to.

The black red-stains on the ground fade away, disappearing into the yellowness of the grass...and an amazing thing occurs. As the woman's blood is drawn into the dying grasses, the grasses where she lay grow green again, lush and full as they were at the beginning of Flamerule. Spots and dashes of green sprout out further, where drops flew during our fight.

Jaheira sighs and eases from the ground, clenching and unclenching her fist, which looks bloodless. She turns to me. I realize my mouth has dropped open somewhat. I close it.

Jaheira studies me. At last she says, with a shrug, "Nature takes in all it can. Life, from anywhere. All it needs is encouragement."

She goes back toward the inn.

((A))

"It is done," says Jaheira, sitting down across from me.

Imoen drums on the table. Khalid's eyelid twitches. I get the feeling they're near to bursting.

"Outside," says Jaheira, before anyone can speak.

We rise and make our way outside into bright sunlight again. After the dim tavern it's stunning.

"Did she hit you?" Jaheira nods at my shoulder.

I shrug. It hurts. "A little."

Khalid looks carefully up and down the street. He puts his helmet back on as we leave the tavern. Amnian soldiers still stand at attention, or sit bored in the shadows, or pace back and forth, also bored. The one near their warehouse barracks seems to have fallen asleep.

The air is fresh and cool. I drink it in like water, for the moment ignoring my shoulder. I lean back against the wooden wall of the tavern, to one side of the single large window, and massage my bruised muscles. Definitely nothing broken, but damn it hurts.

Imoen bursts. "Di, _another_ one?"

"Yeah."

"Who was it?"

"A woman. I think it was the one in the corner when we came in."

"She did get up and leave," says Jaheira, "But she went out the front."

"It would be suspicious if she d-didn't," says Khalid, Jaheira nods.

I sigh. A weary ache has settled over my whole body now. It's not all from the spell, that only takes it out for awhile. "That makes three."

Imoen's eyes pop wide. "Three? When was the other one?"

"Candlekeep. A man named Carbos, just after you left me that day."

"_Di!_"

I shrug. "I'm sorry. There was a lot more going on then." As if there isn't now?

"This is not good at all," says Jaheira. "More than one head hunter tracking you would indicate more than one notice being put out…or more." She lifts the belted pouch she took from the woman and begins digging through it. "Money," she says, shifting coins. "And this." She pulls out a folded sheet of parchment, opens it, and reads. Her face darkens and she passes the parchment to me.

_Be it known to all of certain intent that a price has been placed on the head of Diana Shael'sa, the foster child of Gorion of Candlekeep._

_Last seen in the area of Beregost, this person is to be killed in short order. The subject is considered a formidable opponent and is likely to have well-armed traveling companions. This offer has been extended to all appropriate guilds. Those returning with proof of the deed will receive no less than six hundred eighty coins of gold._

_Any who reveal these plans to the forces of law will join the target in her fate._

Gods above, I think as I give Khalid the notice. Jaheira's right. _More_ than one other. Much more.

"Six hundred coins," says Khalid, giving Imoen the notice. "A substantial sum, to s-say the least."

"All on me." It comes out as a whisper.

Imoen crumples the parchment. Her face has gone white.

"They tracked you."

"What?"

"They tracked us," she says. "At least to Beregost. They know we were there, after we left the Friendly Arm. Someone's been following us."

"Or preceding us," says Jaheira. "The…organizations that carry out these activities no doubt have numerous assistants for the less…demanding tasks."

"You mean finding me and killing me," I say. "How pleasant." My voice has risen. I bring it back down, trying to stay calm. Hysterics won't help me now. My fatigue is fading, bringing renewed energy and a desire, a _need_ to get out of here, get away from the jakes where Jaheira dumped a dead body.

Khalid has remained silent through this exchange. At last he speaks. "Do you think these people, the ones who p-put your name out, are the s-same as the ones who you m-m-met that night?"

Jaheira answers before I can. "How can it be anyone else?" She looks over at me. "Has anyone else threatened to kill you, Diana?"

I make a disgusted sound. Jaheira nods. "Then I think we can safely assume that only one person wishes you dead. Thus they have put your name out to the various guilds that handle bounty hunts."

My name on dozens, if not scores of these papers, riding around in belt pouches all along the Sword Coast. And they've not been idle; since our departure from the Friendly Arm, ten days ago, the price on my head has tripled.

I look over at Jaheira the all-knowing. "So what can I do about it?" I hope I don't sound too much like I'm pleading…but I am.

She blinks at me. "What do you mean?"

What does _she_ mean, asking that? "I mean what the nine hells am I going to do about people trying to kill me?"

She considers me for a long moment, as if deciding how much and what to say. Then she raises one long eyebrow and says, "You could hide from them. Forever."

I stare at her.

"You could let them kill you."

Khalid looks over at her, startled.

"You could run away from them, and keep running. Forever."

The sharp-edged object in my throat begins a steady creep upward. The world blurs at the edges.

Jaheira shrugs. "You could continue as you have been, with us beside you, and deal with them as we encounter them. After we have finished with what Ghastkill asks of us, as far as we go with it, we will turn to your problem and finish with it as well."

_But that means they'll try to kill you as well._

As if she's heard my thoughts, Jaheira frowns. "You would think we would let you be killed, Diana? You truly have a lot to learn. Come. We must meet Ghastkill."

She turns away, down the street. The tears come. For the first time, they aren't painful.

((A))

Who are these people, who I now walk beside? I've just come to realize I don't really have a clue. The only one I really know is Imoen…who isn't the same person who joked day and night, and laughed more readily than any other person in Candlekeep. This Imoen drove her sword into a man's belly. Or Khalid, who only yesterday ran straight at a bow-wielding bandit uncaring of anything but the need to kill him. No northern berserker could have done more. Or Jaheira—especially Jaheira. The "Ice Queen" as Imoen once termed her. The one who caused yellowed grass to soak up a woman's blood, to keep me out of jail or worse.

I follow them down Nashkel's main road, Eliea's lead in hand, Imoen walking beside me. Khalid and Jaheira are nearly the same height. With their armor on all I can see is the mass of her pale hair the barest tips of her ears showing through. Her spear in one hand, the other resting on the hilt of her scimitar. Khalid walks beside her, shield slung across his back, his bow unstrung and slung as well. His hair is long enough to show beneath the bottom of his helm, a chestnut brown against the dull gleam of his armor.. Completely at ease here, so it seems, though their armor speaks otherwise.

I want to learn, I'm willing to learn…but is that enough? How much do I not see, even now?

With a start, I shake myself out of my daze and go down the road, passing by Amnians who grunt and chuckle and mutter to each other. They're looking at me, probably. Like the Watchers, when they didn't think I was looking. Men, all of them. Oh, I know well.

Ignoring them, looking instead at the rough boards of the buildings, and the cobblestones underfoot, a few of them cracked and needing repair, and the shallow grooves wooden wheels have worn along this main thoroughfare, I follow Khalid and Jaheira.

((A))

Berrun Ghastkill stands, bow on his back, sword at his hip, inspecting a row of Amnian soldiers lined up before the church of Helm. The church is the largest single building in town, four multi-story towers and a surrounding cemetery filled with hundreds of white and gray slabs.

He looks up as we approach. He's a grizzled man of at least forty winters but active beyond the norm. His hair has turned the color of Khalid's chain mail and his face is bronzed the way sailors and farmers get.

He frowns at us, as if wondering whether to start shouting at us as well. Then his eyes light on Jaheira, and a broad grin changes his face, wrinkling the corners of his eyes and lifting his ears an amazing distance.

"Jaheira! Watcher, I thought you'd never make it!"

Ignoring his rail-stiff troops he comes forward. Though he's grinning, almost laughing, there's something contained about him. He comes no closer than a few feet and grounds himself there as if anchored. "So you made this far after all. I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you, Jaheira."

His voice is harsh, much like the Gatewarden sounded, back in Candlekeep. The Gatewarden spent most of his days bawling out orders to Watchers and had the tone down perfect, as does Ghastkill.

"Well met, mayor," says Jaheira. She nods at Khalid, Imoen and I, introducing us. Berrun Ghastkill nods to each of us—then stops when he looks at me. His mouth almost drops but he manages to catch it. He blinks, then looks again.

"Gods," he mutters. "Long I'll live if I meet another with your beauty, lady Shaelsa. I'm no poet, and can't do you credit, but I'll say the blood the Telquess runs well in your veins."

_That_ was unexpected. I stare at him as a tinge of color rises to his cheeks. He turns back to look at all of us. "You've come a long way. Berdusk?"

Jaheira smiles, faintly. "A long way."

He nods. "Aye. That's about right. Give me a moment to collect my thoughts and I'll hand out what ye came for. It shouldn't take long."

He looks down at the ground, then up at the sky, frowning in concentration. I notice that his sword is set on his right side and his right arm dangles limp, seemingly useless.

He looks back down at us. "You've a lot to do. I'll give you the base and you work with it, as always. Ready?"

Jaheira nods. Berrun Ghastkill speaks.

"We've two significant problems. The iron coming out of the mine is nigh worthless, and the miners mining it are disappearing."

Disappearing? My attention, which I admit had been wandering, snaps back to Berrun. "The miners are disappearing?"

"Aye," he says, casting me a brief glance. "Just disappearing. The mine down south's not a large one, and we've looked over the parts where miners walk; it's not unusual for a man to walk off a ledge or into a chute and break a leg, then die of thirst. But there are no bodies. It's caused a good many problems with the men. Most of us here in Nashkel either work the mine or work the woods or the mountains. The miners have always been the most, and, well," he says, gesturing at the town around us. "You see what's gone on with so many people missin'. Much more of this and there won't be enough men to keep Nashkel around as a town. We've had to call up a company from over the Cloudpeaks just to keep the roving beasts back. They somehow know there aren't as many people here anymore."

_The troops are for the wandering beasts? _That wouldn't dovetail with the news from further north. Something in the mines…taking the men. My heart begins beating like a hammer on an anvil. Adventure! For the first time since looking over the Sea of Swords I feel the familiar tingle in my muscles, the jitter I felt every time I opened one of the epic tales. The unknown, the undreamt of. What lies down there?

"And the iron?" Jaheira asks.

"That's the other one," says Ghastkill. He glances back at his men and barks at one who's put a toe out of line. "Back in line, Drenkin! You think because you don't see anyone looking you'll drop pose and relax! You'll get _dead _that way, trooper!"

The soldier jumps at the last bit, though he's already back in place. As far as I can see that is. Berrun Ghastkill turns back to us, smiling again.

"Yeah, the iron," he says. "Every damned scrap we bring up from below is black and crumbly—_black_, mind you, not the red you'd expect from actual iron ore. It started about the time we started losin' miners. Can't figure anything except something is making them go away. Understand?"

"Yes," I say.

Jaheira shoots me a look. "How many miners have you lost?" she asks.

Ghastkill grimaces. "We started this year with five score and five. We've lost almost half of them."

"Foodles," says Imoen, in amazed disbelief. I can't help but wince as well. "In how long?"

Ghastkill shrugs. "'Bout six months since it started. We lose a few every year, but mind you, that's due to things like broken legs. None of the miners are fool enough to wander down into the caverns underneath the mines."

Imoen's head snaps up. "Caverns?"

"Indeed. The mine adjoins a series of natural caves further down. We don't mine there, as of yet. I've sent a few troops down into the caverns to see if they can find a better lode, but they don't have a clue what they're looking for. They're troops, not miners. And now the miners absolutely refuse to go further down. Mind you, they don't usually refuse anything if it means pay. Lousy job, mining, even if you don't lose half of every crew that goes down."

He stops talking, looking at Jaheira as she thinks it over. At last she says, "How much are you offering for this?"

He cracks a smile. "I was wondering when you'd get around to that. Whether you'll do it or not, you'll want to know coin. Nine hundred, in hard gold, after the problem's solved. That should cover your expenses for awhile."

Jaheira looks over at Khalid. "What do you think?"

"Cheers," he says, with a nervous smile. "What else did we c-come here for?"

Ghastkill gives Khalid a curious glance. Jaheira looks at Imoen. "And you?"

"I'm with Diana."

"Then, Diana?"

Why else have we come here? Does she really expect me to change my mind? Where else would I go? What else would I do? "Yes," I say.

"Good," says Jaheira. To Ghastkill, "We will do it. We'll need directions to your mine."

"It's a big open pit in the ground." She glares at him and Ghastkill grins. "There's a cart track that leads straight south. It's heavily rutted. The mines are half a day along it by foot."

"And you said the mine is supervised by someone?"

"Emerson. Rethric Emerson, a good foreman. He'll let you by if you're polite and you mention me. Anything else?"

"Yes," I say, breaking in. "Is there an inn here?"

Ghastkill frowns. "You could rent space in one of the warehouses," he says. "They're nigh empty right now. The tavern offers drinks only, not sleeping space. I could put you all up at my place for a night, if you need it. And promise not to break my plates."

"Why do we need to stop, Diana?"

I look over at Jaheira. _Because my shoulder feels like it's going to fall off._ I shrug. "It would be good to know there's somewhere we can sleep. As opposed to beside the road."

"Not a good idea," says Ghastkill, immediately. "This far south the things in the Cloudpeaks sometimes come down out of the mountains. Frostfall makes things even scarcer up there. Trolls, sometimes, though bugbears and hobgoblins are more likely. The foothills aren't too far from here. It's true the bandits haven't bothered anyone bringing up ore along the cart track from the mine…but then, everyone knows the ore is worthless, so why would they?" He shrugs.

"Why should we stop?" Jaheira asks again. "It is still quite light enough to travel."

Again I shrug. It sends stabbing pains up my arm. "We've come four days from Beregost. Personally I don't feel fit to walk down into dark passages without a night's rest. How are we going to see?"

"They've torches and lanterns in the mine," says Ghastkill. "You'll probably have to get some of those."

Jaheira studies me. "Very well," she says. "You said we could use your home tonight, mayor?"

((A))

I'd expected the mayor's house to be larger, perhaps more opulent, than the rest of the houses. In truth I'd expected it to be the estate we'd seen when first entering the town. But Mayor Berrun Ghastkill's house is identical to the others, seated alongside the road off a narrow side street, near the brook-turned-river that curves around the western side of the village. It's stone founded, with wooden walls above waist-height, and a peaked timber roof.

As commander of the Nashkel forces, Ghastkill has his own bunk in the warehouse. Thus, we've commandeered his entire house for the night. There's only one room, with a bed set close to the fireplace, a table, chairs, and two battered chests as high as my waist. All of the furniture is rough, hewn from local trees and constructed with a minimum of aesthetics, but I suspect I could set an anvil on one of Ghastkill's chairs and it wouldn't collapse.

We speak little as we set up. It's past noon and we'd usually still be on the road. Jaheira didn't want to stop here, but she agreed, which probably means she thought it a good idea after all. That or she gave in only because I asked…which doesn't sound like her.

It's only Uktar, and we've spent the last few nights on the road anyhow, so we all elect not to take too much from Berrun's words and leave his fireplace and woodpile alone. We've blankets aplenty.

"We'll be starting early tomorrow," says Jaheira. "As early as possible, which means we will be walking a good part of it before sunrise." She buckles her belted scimitar back on. "I will go see about supplies. And torches."

Khalid sits down in one of the chairs, pulls out a whetstone and begins touching up his sword. He's so intent I don't want to speak for fear he'll miss and cut himself. I look over at Imoen. She's watching Khalid too, smiling. She looks over at me. "How's your shoulder, Di?"

I shrug. "Better." That, at least, is true.

((A))

Time creeps by. The sun falls from its lofty perch into the grassy hills west of town, leaving only a faint trace of gold in the sky. Jaheira returns with Eliea and two dozen torches dipped to last a half hour apiece. She's also purchased four quivers of arrows, two apiece for Imoen and Khalid. "Do you know how to use a bow?" she asks me.

"Not very well."

"But you know the sword."

"Well enough. I've learned more." _More in the last few days than all my lessons with Jondalar._

She smiles, with her eyes only. "That is how it is. Very well, but it would be good for you to learn more. When fighting another it is better to be fifty feet away and kill him than to let him close. You will be the only one of us without such. How much Art can you call up?"

She takes a seat beside me. It's good Ghastkill has more than one chair. Maybe he has company often.

"Not much. What I did today is probably the limit."

"But back with the bandits, you used…a hand of fire?"

"I didn't mean to," I say, and then realize how strange that sounds.

Jaheira's brows draw together. "What do you mean? You cannot control your spells?"

"That's the first time it's happened to me. I meant to make a force bolt."

She considers this, obviously not getting it. "But I have not seen you with a book between today and yesterday. Can you remember more than one spell?"

I shrug. "Not really. It's as if I have a certain amount of energy I can expend each day, but I have a lot of options about what I use it for. Yesterday it was fire, though I didn't mean for that to happen. I'm not sure how I did it even now."

She gives me a startled look. "You do not have a book of spells that you study?"

I smile, faintly. "No. Well, yes, I do, but I don't need to fix them like other mages. Once I know them, I remember them, as long as I have what it takes to bring them out."

Jaheira shifts in her chair. "I have never heard of someone using the Weave like this."

"You're not the only one. Gorion didn't understand it either. I'm surprised he didn't tell you, acquainted as you seem to have been."

She looks up, eyes hard for a moment. "No, he did not. That is odd."

"I know. But it works."

"This is very interesting. You…" she frowns. "You do not mind me asking of this?"

"Why not?" The fatigue of this morning, the fight, and the continuing dull ache in my shoulder are getting to me. "But I'll say right now I'm tired, Jaheira. I don't kill people everyday."

"Then sleep, child. From what Ghastkill said, we will all need all we can spare in the days ahead. Strange things are happening to the south."

I nod and go to my bedroll. But I do not sleep.

((A))

I crack the covers of my leather-bound book and study my own scribbled writing of only last night. Then I arrange my own pen and ink, but for a long time I stare at the blank parchment, letting the ink dry on the tip of my pen. Then I sigh and write.

_Uktar 19__th_

_Nigh on two tendays have passed since my flight from Candlekeep. From that horrible stone circle and the man in armor who still strides around in my dreams. I'd thought things would clear as time passed. I'd thought, eventually, that my dreams and memories would grow more distant, hopefully more bearable. They haven't._

The last rays of the sun lance in through Berrun's single west-facing window. Imoen gets up to light one of the lanterns hanging next to the door. Some people use candles; Berrun obviously prefers more light than that. I can't say I blame him: long hours of reading by candles make my eyes hurt, too.

I'm stalling. I lift my pen.

_My mind just isn't clear anymore. There's too much to think about, and I can't seem to narrow it down to one thing. We're going south, still, with Khalid and Jaheira. Tomorrow we should reach the Nashkel mines and begin whatever investigations they intend. Imoen and I are like passengers, just riding along._

_An "adventure" I thought, just today. A chance to see what I've wanted all my life. It's not as glamorous as I thought it would be. But I never considered having to run away from Candlekeep. And I certainly never thought I would leave and have to run because Gorion was dead._

I pause for a long moment, staring down at those words.

_That's the first time I've been able to write that he is gone. It hurts to say it, to think it, but not as much as before. Maybe I'm getting used to it after all, now. A little._

_Too much to think about. Like what we're going to do, Imoen and I, after we've finished whatever we're doing in the mines. Khalid and Jaheira have been very kind to let us come this far, but I really should find something to do. I wish we could stay. I'm still not used to the idea of someone offering money for my head, and Jaheira's brains and Khalid's sword have proven very useful, to all of us._

_We need to discuss that. After the mines…I'm not ready for travel alone. Neither is Imoen, I suspect, especially now with the bandits and creatures on the roads. If it had just been Imoen and I on that road yesterday, we would be dead. Like my dream._

I look down at the words I've just written. Did I really just write that? What strange things come off of my pen when I'm not really thinking…

_I just looked down at all the grim words on this page and couldn't help but smile. Bitterly, yes, at what changes the weeks have wrought. I've killed five people now. Carbos, that mage at the Arm, two bandits on the road… and that woman today. I still can't quite believe it was me who did that…as if Jaheira and I stepped out back of the tavern and found the scene for the first time, as if someone else had used her mace…as if someone else had brought it down. But I can still feel it, all that cold metal in my hands, just like a club. I killed her._

_But I think, terrible as it sounds and will no doubt look on the page, I might be getting used to it. At least I don't puke anymore. They were trying to hurt me, or others, and I killed them. That's it._

_Imoen would have died too, without Jaheira. I can't help but look over every once in a while and grin, just smile and feel so damned _glad_ that she's here, sitting and laughing, grinning back at me, _living._ Not laying back there beside the road like the men we fought. I've never felt worse than when she was hurt. I never want to feel that way again._

But what if it does? What the hell am I going to do if it _does_ happen again? Khalid and Jaheira, they acted as if it was normal, just another thing to deal with…is it even _possible_ to get used to something like that? How can I think about getting used to Imoen…to _anyone_ I know, who I…care for…how can I become used to knowing they might just die?

My hands are trembling. I jab my pen down and blot the page, then write on past it.

_I don't think I can do that. They never write about this stuff in books. No epic describes how to deal with…with that. I don't even want to think about it, but how can't I?_

What would I do if she'd died? Gods, no. Not that. Anything but that. Enough tears, Diana. Enough—

((A))

I walk out the front door, book, pen, and inkpot clenched in one hand, the other over my face. There's a barrel beside the door and I sit down, shaking. I can't seem to stop. No tears this time, just trembling so bad I can't control it. I grind my teeth together and slowly, so slowly, the tremors cease.

I write.

_I'm finished now. Enough about that. That's something to ask Khalid and Jaheira about—before we reach the mines._

_I still have a lot to learn. More than I ever realized, even after Gorion died and we went north. Even with weeks on the road and blood on my blade, I know almost nothing._

I stare down at the page. I can barely see it in the fading light.

_Where has the girl gone? The one who looked out across the Sea of Sword, with the sun shining on the water? How did she become me, so quick to tears and yet brutal enough to smash an injured woman's skull?_

_I don't like all of what has changed. Deneir willing, I never will. If I could bring Gorion back, I would without second thought. I can't. I can say I understand that now, enough so I might be able to look away from the road behind, and ahead for the first time._

_There has to be something in those epic tales. Adventure, hope and glory and fun…can't all be invented, can they?_

_I hope the gods let me find restful sleep again tonight._

((A))

Selune is a brilliant circle with a bite out of it. Its light is white and cool, not the blue harshness of last night's dream as, sick of eating the same sort of food for four days, we all go down to the tavern.

The tall, stooped keeper of the ale tells us we're lucky. A month from now, the best he could manage would be the last of the shriveled potatoes and the odd tuber his son had dug up. Now, in the middle of Uktar, the potatoes are huge and whole and not shriveled in the least. He layers them in some kind of sauce made of mushrooms and we devour whole platters of the things.

Later, happily full and getting sleepy, we go back down to Ghastkill's and collapse on our bedrolls. Jaheira bolts the door from the inside and puts Ghastkill's loaned key on the table.

This is all I see before I fall asleep.

When I awake the next morning, all I can remember are eyes, green and flecked with gold, with vertical slits, staring at me, and a rough, purring chuckle.

((T))

Author's Note:

I suppose you could call this an interlude chapter between the road and the mines. I'm discovering that I don't like cities that much. They're mostly boring. But do not take that to mean Nashkel isn't there. Nashkel _is_ there…Diana just hasn't seen much of it.

That's an interesting thing I've found about this. Diana knows only what she knows, and can't see through buildings like a typical story narrator. It's kind of fun.

Please, _please_ tell me if you note grammatical errors in this. I abhor incorrect spelling, but I do have my own weird way of putting things and my own concepts of what exactly colons and semicolons are for. But I can't stand bad spelling. Mention it and I'll fix it. I've read too many stories that keep their mistakes, this will not be one. I found a horrible mistake in chapter 4 and have continued finding mistakes. Ah, well, that is the result of not having a true, godly editor.

As an explanation for the tardiness of this chapter, I'll say that I'm pretty much finished with chapter 9 as well at the moment, but I wanted to be certain they would mesh. Chap. 9 should come in a day or two at the most. Again, as always, it seems, things are not turning out as I'd expected.

Review!

**CrazeeFfan**, yes, Diana has morals. I won't state her alignment because alignments function to provide characters and Diana is a person whose emotions aren't ruled by a lawful/chaotic or good/evil axis. I'd rather write about a person than a character any day. I had to rewrite the whole blooming dream sequence because it wasn't working as I liked, and I'll probably be messing with the other dreams as well…

I can safely say with a smile of foreshadow that in both Baldur's Gate and Baldur's Gate II I very much disliked how much railroading the game did. It's a game, yes, so you can't go off into the wilderness toward Durlag's Tower like you'd be able to, and I didn't like that. It is something I intend to mess with. Whee.

K. Stramin

January 13th

Afternoonish


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